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-DICKENS’ NEW 

CONTAINING 


STORIES. 

MkT 


TIIE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRIST- 
MAS FIRE. HARD TIMES. LIZZIE LEIGH. THE MINER’S 
DAUGHTERS. FORTUNE WILDRED, TaX!. 


/ 

BY CHAKLES DICKENS. 

(“BOZ.”) 


WITH A PORTEAIT OF THE AUTHOR, ENQRAYED ON STEEL. 


T. B. PETERSON’S UNIFORM EDITION OF CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

CONTAINING 

DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. Containing- 
The Seven Poor Travellers. Nine 
New Stories by the Christmas Fire. 
Hard Times. Lizzie Leigh. The Mi- 
ner’s Daughters. Fortune Wildred, 
THE Foundling, i:tc. 

DOMBEY AND SON. 

CHRISTMAS STORIES, AND PICTURES 
FROM ITALY. 




IP 

T. B. PETERSON, No. 102 CHESTNUT STREET 



BLEAK HOUSE. 
PICKWICK PAPERS. 
OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 
OLIVER TWIST. 
SKETCHES BY “BOZ.” 
BARNABY RUDGE. 
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 
MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 







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THE 


SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 

THE FIRST POOR TRAVELLER. 


Strictly speaking, there were only six 
Poor Travellers ; but, being a Traveller my- 
self, though an idle one, and being withal 
as poor as I hope to be, I brought the num- 
ber up to seven. This word of explanation 
is due at once ; for what says the inscrip- 
tion over the quaint old door ? 

Kichard Watts, Esq., 
by his Will, dated 22 Aug., 1579, 
founded this Charity 
for Six poor Travellers, 
who not being Rogues or Proctors, 
May receive gratis for one Night, 
Lodging, Entertainment, 
and Four-pence each. 

It was in the ancient little city of Roches- 
ter, in Kent, of all the good days in the 
year upon a Christmas Eve, that I stood 
reading this inscription over.the quaint old 
door in question. 1 had been wandering 
about the neighboring Cathedral, and had 
seen the tomb of Richard Watts, with the 
effigy of worthy Master Richard starting out 
of it like a ship’s figure-head ; and I had 
felt that I could do no less, as I gave the 
Verger his fee, than inquire the way to 
Watts’s Charity. The way being very short 
and very plain, I had come prosperously to 
the inscription and the quaint old door. 

“ Now,” said I to myself, as I looked at 
the knocker, “ I know I am not a Proctor; 
I wonder whether I am a Rogue I” 

Upon the whole, though Conscience repro- 
duced two or three pretty faces which might 
have had smaller attraction for a moral Go- 
liath than they had had for me, who am but 
a Tom Thumb in that way, I came to the 
conclusion that I was not a Rogue. So, be- 
ginniag to regard the establishment as in 
some sort my property, bequeathed to me 
and divers co-legatees, share and share alike, 
by the Worshipful Master Richard Watts, I 
stepped backward into the road to survey my 
inheritance. 


I found it to be a clean white house, of a 
staid and venerable air, with the quaint old 
door already three times mentioned, (an 
arched door, choice little long, low, lattice- 
windows, and a roof of three gables. The 
silent High Street of Rochester is full of 
gables, with old beams and timbers carved 
into strange faces. It is oddly garnished , 
with a queer old clock, that projects over the 
pavement out of a grave red brick building, 
as if Time carried on business there, and 
hung out his sign. Sooth to say, he did an 
active stroke of work in Rochester, in the old 
days of the Romans, and the Saxons, and the 
Normans, and down to the times of King 
John, when the rugged castle — I will not un- 
dertake to say how many hundreds of years 
old then — was abandoned to the centuries of 
weather which have so defaced the dark aper- 
tures in its walls, that the ruin looks as if 
the rooks and daws had picked its eyes out. 

I was very well pleased both with my pro- 
perty and its situation. While I was yet 
surveying it with growing content, I espied 
at one of the upper lattices which stood open, 
a decent body, of a wholesome matronly ap- 
pearance, whose eyes I caught inquiringly 
addressed to mine. They said so plainly, 

“ Do you wish to see the house ?” that I an- 
swered aloud, “ Yes, if you please.” And 
within a minute the old door opened, and I 
bent my head, and went down two steps into 
the entry. 

“ This,’' said the matronly presence, usher- 
ing me into a low room on the right, “ is 
where the travellers sit by the fire, and cook 
what bits of suppers they buy with their 
four-pences.” 

“ Oh I Then they have no entertainment?’' 
said I. For, the inscription over the outer 
door was still running in my head, and I was 
mentally repeating in a kind of tune, “ Lodg- 
ing, entertainment, and four-pence each.” 

“ They have a fire provided for ’em,” re- 
turned the matron ; a mighty civil person, 
not, as I could make out, overpaid ; “ and 

( 3 ) 


4 


DICKEX’S XEW STORIES. 


these cooking utensils. And this whafs 
ainted on a board, is the rules for their he- 
avier. They have their four-pences when 
they get their tickets from the steward over 
the way — for I don’t admit ’em myself, they 
must get their tickets first — and sometimes 
one buys a rasher of bacon, and another a 
herring, and another a pound of potatoes, or 
what not. Sometimes two or three of ’em 
will club their four-pences together, and 
make a supper that way. But not much of 
anything is to be got for four-pence, at pre- 
sent, when provisions is so dear.” 

“ True, indeed,” I remarked. I had been 
looking about the room, admiring its snug 
fireside at the upper end, its glimpse of the 
street throifgh the low mullioned window, 
and its beams overhead. “It is very com- 
fortable,” said I. 

“ Ill-conwenient,” observed the matronly 
presence. 

I liked to hear her say so ; for it showed 
a commendable anxiety to execute, in no 
niggardly spirit, the intentions of Master 
Richard Watts. But the room was really so 
well adapted to its purpose, that I protested 
quite enthusiastically, against her disparage- 
ment. 

“ Nay, ma’am,” said I, “ I am sure it is 
warm in winter and cool in summer. It has 
a look of homely welcome and soothing rest. 
It has a remarkably cosey fireside, the very 
blink of which, gleaming out into the street 
upon a winter night, is enough to warm all 
Rochester’s heart. And as to the convenience 
of the six Poor Travellers ” 

“ I don’t mean them,” returned the pre- 
sence. “ I speak of its being an ill-conwe- 
nience to myself and my daughter having 
no other room to sit in of a night.” 

This was true enough, but there was an- 
other quaint room of corresponding dimen- 
sions on the opposite side of the entry : so, 
I stepped across to it, through the open 
doors of both rooms, and asked what this 
chamber was for ? 

“ This,” returned the presence, “ is the 
Board Room ; where the gentlemen meet 
when they come here.” 

Let me see. I had counted from the street 
six upper windows, besides these on the 
ground story. Making a perplexed calcula^ 
tion in my mind, I rejoined, “ Then the six 
Poor Travellers sleep up stairs ?” 

My new friend shook her head. “ They 
sleep,’’ she answered, “ in two little outer 
galleries at the back, where their beds has 
always been, ever since the Charity was 
founded. It being so very ill-conwenient to 
me as things is at present, the gentlemen 
are going to take oflT a bit of the back yard, 
and make a slip of a room for ’em there, to 
sit in before they go to bed.” 

“ And then the six Poor Travellers,” said 
I, “ will be entirely out of the house ?” 

“ Entirely out of the house,” assented the 


presence, comfortably smoothing her hands ; 
“ which is considered much better for all 
parties, and much more conwenient.” 

I had been a little startled, in the cathe- 
dral, by the emphasis with which the efi&gy 
of Master Richard Watts was bursting out 
of his tomb ; but I began to think, now, 
that it might be expected to come across the 
High Street some stormy night, and make a 
disturbance here. 

Howbeit, I kept my thoughts to myself, 
and accompanied the presence to the little 
galleries at the back. I found them on a 
tiny scale, like the galleries in old inn 
yards ; and they were very clean. While I 
was looking at them, the matron gave me 
to understand that the prescribed number 
of Poor Travellers were forthcoming every 
night, from year’s end to year’s end ; and 
that the beds were always occupied. My 
questions upon this, and her replies, brought 
us back to the Board Room, so essential to 
the dignity of “ the gentlemen,” where she 
showed me the printed accounts of the Cha- 
rity, hanging up by the window. From 
them, I gathered that the greater part of 
the property bequeathed by the Worshipful 
Master Richard Watts, for the maintenance 
of this foundation, was, at the period of his 
death, mere marsh-land ; but that, in course 
of time, it had been reclaimed and built 
upon, and was very considerably increased 
in value. I found, too, that about a thirti- 
eth part of the annual revenue was now 
expended on the purposes commemorated in 
the inscription over the door ; the rest being 
handsomely laid out in Chancery, law ex- 
penses, collectorship, receivership, pound- 
age, and other appendages of management, 
highly complimentary to the importance of 
the six Poor Travellers. In short, I made 
the not entirely new discovery, that it may 
be said of an establishment like this, in dear 
Old England, as of the fat oyster in the 
American story, that it takes a good many 
men to swallow it whole. 

“And pray, ma’am,” said I, sensible that 
the blankness of my face began to brighten 
as a thought occurred to me, “could one 
see these Travellers ?” 

“ Well !” she returned dubiously, “ no I” 

“ Not to-night, for instance ?” said I. 

“Well!” she returned more positively, 
“ no ! Nobody ever asked to see them, and 
nobody ever did see them.” 

As I am not easily baulked in a design 
when I am set upon it, I urged to the good 
lady that this was Christmas Eve ; that 
Christmas comes but once a year — which is 
unhappily too true, for when it begins to 
stay with us the whole year round, we shall 
make this earth a very different place — that 
I was possessed by the desire to treat the Tra- 
vellers to a supper and a temperate glass 
of hot Wassail ; that the voice of Fame 
had been heard in the land, declaring my 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


ability to make hot Wassail ; that if I were 
permitted to hold the feast, I should be 
found conformable to reason, sobriety, and 
good hours; in a word, that I could be 
merry and wise myself, and had been even 
known at a pinch to keep others so, although 
I was decorated with no badge or medal, 
and was not a Brother, Orator, Apostle, 
Saint, or Prophet of any denomination 
whatever. In the end I prevailed, to my 
great joy. It was settled that at nine 
o'^clock that night, a turkey and a piece of 
roast beef should smoke upon the board ; 
and that I, faint and unworthy minister for 
once of Master Richard Watts, should pre- 
side as the Christmas-supper host of the six 
Poor Travellers. 

I went back to my inn, to give the neces- 
sary directions for the turkey and roast 
beef, and, during the remainder of the day, 
could settle to nothing for thinking of the 
Poor Travellers. When the wind blew hard 
against the windows — it was a cold day, 
with dark gusts of sleet alternating with 
periods of wild brightness, as if the year 
were dying fitfully — I pictured them ad- 
vancing towards their resting-place, along 
various cold roads, and felt delighted 
think how little they foresaw the supper 
that awaited them. I painted their por- 
traits in my mind, and indulged in little 
heightening touches. I made them foot- 
sore ; I made them weary ; I made them 
carry packs and bundles ; I made them stop 
by finger-posts and mile-stones, leaning on 
their bent sticks, and looking wistfully at 
what was written there ; I made them lose 
their way, and filled their five wits with 
apprei nsions of lying out all night, and 
being lK.zen to death. I took up my hat 
and went out, climbed to the top of the Old 
Oastle, and looked over the windy hills that 
slope down to the Medway ; almost believ- 
ing that I could descry some of my Travel- 
lers in the distance. After it fell dark, and 
the Cathedral bell was heard in the invisible 
steeple — quite a bower of frosty rime when 
I had last seen it — striking five, six, seven, 
I became so full of my Travellers that I 
could eat no dinner, and felt constrained to 
watch them still, in the red coals of my fire. 
They were all arrived by this time, I 
thought, had got their tickets, and were 
gone in. — There, my pleasure was dashed 
by the reflection that probably some Tra- 
vellers had come too late, and were shut 
out. 

After the Cathedral bell had struck eight, 
I could smell a delicious savor of turkey and 
roast beef, rising to the window of my ad- 
joining bed-room, which looked down into 
the inn yard, just where the lights of the 
kitchen reddened a massive fragment of the 
Castle wall. It was high time to make the 
Wassail now ; therefore, I had up the ma- 
terials, (which, together with their proper- 1 


5 

.tions and combinations, I must decline to 
impart, as the only secret of my own I was 
ever known to keep,) and made a glorious 
jorum; not in a bowl— for a bowl any- 
where but on a shelf, is a low superstition, 
fraught with cooling and slopping — but in 
a brown earthenware pitcher, tenderly suf- 
focated when full, with a coarse cloth. It 
being now upon the stroke of nine, I set out 
for Watts’s Charity, carrying my brown 
beauty in my arms. I would trust Ben* the 
waiter with untold gold; but there are 
strings in the human heart which must 
never be sounded by another, and drinks 
that I make myself are those strings in 
mine. 

The Travellers were all assembled, the 
cloth was laid, and Ben had brought a great 
billet of wood, and had laid it artfully on 
the top of the fire, so that a touch or two of 
the poker, after supper, should make a 
roaring blaze. Having deposited my brown 
beauty in a red nook of the hearth, inside 
the fender, where she soon began to sing 
like an ethereal cricket, diffusing at the 
same time, odors as of ripe vineyards, spice 
forests, and orange groves — I say, having 
stationed my beauty in a place of security 
and improvement, I introduced myself to 
my guests by shaking hands all round, and 
giving them a hearty welcome. 

I found the party to be thus composed ; — 
Firstly, myself. Secondly, a very decent 
man, indeed, with his right arm in a sling, 
who had a certain clean, agreeable smell of 
wood about him, from which I judged him 
to have something to do with shipbuilding. 
Thirdly, a little sailor-boy, a mere child, 
with a profusion of rich dark-brown hair, 
and deep, womanly-looking eyes. Fourthly, 
a shabby-genteel personage, in a thread- 
bare black suit, and apparently in very 
bad circumstances, with a dry, suspicious 
look; the absent buttons on his waist- 
coat eked out with red tape, and a bundle 
of extraordinarily tattered papers sticking 
out of an inner breast-pocket. Fifthly, a 
foreigner by birth, but an Englishman in 
speech, who carried his pipe in the band of 
his hat, and lost no time in telling me, in 
an easy, simple, engaging way, that he 
was a watchmaker from Geneva, and tra- 
velled all about the Continent, mostly on 
foot, working as a journeyman, and seeing 
new countries — possibly (I thought) also 
smuggling a watch or so, now and then. 
Sixthly, a little widow, who had been very 
pretty, and was still very young, but whose 
beauty had been wrecked in some great 
misfortune, and whose manner was remark- 
ably timid, scared, and solitary. Seventhly, 
and lastly, a Traveller, of a kind familiar to 
my boyhood, but now almost obsolete ; a 
Book-peddler, who had a quantity of pam- 
phlets and numbers with him, and who pre- 
sently boasted that he could repeat more 


6 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


verses in an evening than he could sell in a 
twelvemonth. 

All these I have mentioned, in the order 
in which they sat at table. I presided, and 
the matronly presence faced me. We were 
not long in taking our places, for the supper 
had arrived with me, in the following pro- 
cession: — 

Myself with the pitcher. 

Ben with Beer. 

Inattentive Boy with 1 Inattentive Boy with 
hot plates. | hot plates. 

THE TURKEY. 

Female carrying sauces to be heated on the 
spot. 

THE BEEF. 

Man with Tray on his head, containing 
Vegetables and Sundries. 

Volunteer Hostler from Hotel, grinning, 
and rendering no assistance. 

As we passed along the High-street, Comet- 
like, we left a long tail of fragrance behind 
us, which caused the public to stop, sniffling 
in wonder. We had previously left at the 
corner of the inn-yard, a wall-eyed young 
man connected with the Fly department, and 
well accustomed to the sound of a railway 
whistle, which Ben always carries in his 
pocket : whose instructions were, so soon as 
he should hear the whistle blown, to dash 
into the kitchen, seize the hot plum-pudding 
and mince pies, and speed with them to 
Watts’s Charity — where they would be re- 
ceived (he was further instructed) by the 
sauce-female, who would be provided with 
brandy in a blue state of combustion. 

All these arrangements were executed in 
the most exact and punctual manner. I 
never saw a finer turkey, finer beef, or greater 
prodigality of sauce and gravy ; and my 
Travellers did wonderful justice to every- 
thing set before them. It made my heart 
rejoice, to observe how their wind-and-frost 
hardened faces, softened in the clatter of 
plates and knives and forks, and mellowed 
in the fire and supper heat. While their hats 
and caps, and wrappers, hanging up ; a few 
small bundles On the ground in a corner; 
and, in another corner, three or four old 
walking sticks, worn down at the end to mere 
fringe; linked this snug interior with the 
bleak outside in a golden chain. 

When supper was done, and my brown 
beauty had been elevated on the table, there 
was a general requisition to me, to “ take the 
corner which suggested to me, comfortably 
enough, how much my friends here made of 
a fire — for when had I ever thought so highly 
of the corner, since the days when I connect- 
ed it with Jack Horner ? However, as I de- 
clined, Ben, whose touch on all convivial 
instruments is perfect, drew the table apart, 
and instructing my Travellers to open right 


and left, on either side of me, and form round 
the fire, closed up the centre with myself and 
my chair, and preserved the order we had 
kept at table. He had already, in a tranquil 
manner, boxed the ears of the inattentive 
boys, until they had been by imperceptible 
degrees boxed out of the room ; and he now 
rapidly skirmished the sauce-female into the 
High-street, disappeared, and softly closed 
the door. 

This was the time for bringing the poker 
to bear on the billet of wood. I tapped it 
three times, like an enchanted talisman, and 
a brilliant host of merrymakers burst out of 
it, and sported off by the chimney — rushing 
up the middle in a fiery country dance, and 
never coming down again. Meanwhile, by 
their sparkling light, which threw our lamp 
into the shade, I filled the glasses, and gave 
my Travellers, Christmas ! — Christmas Eve, 
my friends, when the Shepherds, who were 
Poor Travellers, too, in their way, heard the 
Angels sing, “ On earth, peace. Good-will, 
towards men !” 

I don’t know who was the first among us 
to think that we ought to take hands as we 
sat, in deference to the toast, or whether any 
one of us anticipated the others, but at any 
rate we all did it. We then drank to the 
memory of the good Master Richard Watts. 
And I wish his ghost may never have had 
any worse usage under that roof, than it had 
from us I 

It was the witching time for story-telling, 
“ Our whole life. Travellers,” said I, “ is a 
story more or less intelligible — generally 
less ; but we shall read it by a clearer light 
when it is ended. I, for one, am so divided 
this night between fact and fiction, that I 
scarce know which is which. Shall we be- 
guile the time by telling stories, in our order 
as we sit here ?” 

They all answered, yes, provided I would 
begin. I had little to tell them, but I was 
bound by my own proposal. Therefore, after 
looking for a while at the spiral column of 
smoke wreathing up from my brown beauty, 
through which I could have almost sworn I 
saw the effigy of Master Richard Watts less 
startled than usual ; I fired away. 

In the year one thousand seven hundred 
and ninety-nine, a relative of mine came 
limping down, on foot, to this town of Chat- 
ham. I call it this town, because if anybody 
present knows to a nicety where Rochester 
ends and Chatham begins, it is more than I 
do. He was a poor traveller, with not a 
farthing in his pocket. He sat by the fire in 
this very room, and he slept one night in e 
bed that will be occupied to-night by some 
one here. 

My relative came down to Chatham, to en- 
list in a cavalry regiment, if a cavalry regi- 
ment would have him ; if not, to take King 
George’s shilling from any corporal or ser- 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


eant, who would put a bunch of ribbons in 
is hat. His object was to get shot ; but he 
thought he might as well ride to death as be 
at the trouble of walking. 

My relative's Christian name was Richard, 
but he was better known as Dick. He drop- 
ped his own surname on the road down, and 
took up that of Doubledick. He was passed 
as ^ Richard Doubledick ; age twenty- two ; 
height, five foot ten ; native place. Exmouth ; 
which he had never been near i?i his life. — 
There was no cavalry in Chatham, when he 
limped over the bridge here, with half a shoe 
to his dusty foot, so he enlisted into a regi- 
ment of the line, and was glad to get drunk 
and forget all about it. 

You are to know that this relative of mine 
had gone wrong and run wild. His heart was 
in the right place, but it was sealed up. He 
had been betrothed to a good and beautiful 
girl whom he had loved better than she — or 

E erhaps ^en he — believed ; but in an evil 
our, he had given her cause to say to him, 
solemnly, “ Richard, I will never marry any 
other man. I will live single for your sake, 
but Mary Marshall's lips — her name was 
Mary Marshall ; — “ never address another 
word to you on earth. Go, Richard I 
Heaven forgive you I” This finished him. 
This brought him down to Chatham. This 
made him private Richard Doubledick, with 
a deep determination to be shot. 

There was not a more dissipated and reck- 
less soldier in Chatham barracks, in the year 
one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, 
than Private Richard Doubledick. He asso- 
ciated with the dregs of every regiment, he 
was as seldom sober as he could be, and was 
constantly under punishment. It became 
clear to the whole barracks, that Private 
Richard Doubledick would very soon be 
flogged. 

Now the Captain of Richard Doubledick's 
company was a young gentleman not above 
five years his senior, wh^ose eyes had an ex- 
pression in them which affected Private 
Kichard Doubledick in a very remarkable 
way. They were 'bright, handsome, dark 
eyes — what are called laughing eyes gene- 
rally and, when serious, rather steady than 
severe — but, they were the only eyes now 
left in his narrowed world that Private 
Richard Doubledick could not stand. Un- 
abashed by evil report and punishment, 
defiant of everything else and everybody 
else, he had but to know that those eyes 
looked at him for a moment, and he felt 
ashamed. He could not so much as salute 
Captain Taunton in the street, like any other 
officer. He was reproached and confused — 
troubled by the mere possibility of the cap- 
tain's looking at him. In his worst moments 
he would rather turn back and go any dis- 
tance out of his way, than encounter those 
two handsome, dark, bright eyes. 

One day, when Private Richard Double- 


dick came out of the Black hole, where he 
had been passing the last eight-and-forty 
hours, and in which retreat he spent a good 
deal of his time, he was ordered to betake 
himself to Captain Taunton's quarters. In 
the stale and squalid state of a man just out 
of the Black hole, he had less fancy than 
ever for being seen by the Captain ; but he 
was not so mad yet as to disobey orders, 
and consequently went up to the terrace 
overlooking the parade-ground, where the 
officers' quarters were : twisting and break- 
ing in his hands as he went along, a bit of 
the straw that had formed the decorative 
furniture of the Black hole. 

“ Come in !" cried the Captain, when he 
knocked with his knuckles at the door. 
Private Richard Doubledick pulled off his 
cap, took a stride forward, and felt very 
conscious that he stood in the light of the 
dark bright eyes. 

There was a silent pause. Private Richard 
Doubledick had put the straw in his mouth, 
and was gradually doubling it up into his 
windpipe and choking himself. 

“Doubledick," said the Captain, “Do you 
know where you are going to ?" 

“ To the Devil, sir I" faltered Doubledick. 

“ Yes," returned the Captain. “And very 
fast." 

Private Richard Doubledick turned the 
straw of the Black hole in his mouth, and 
made a miserable salute of acquiescence. 

“ Doubledick," said the Captain, “ since I 
entered his Majesty's service, a boy of seven- 
teen, I have been pained to see many men 
of promise going that road ; but I have never 
been so pained to see a man determined to 
make the shameful journey, as I have been, 
ever since you joined the regiment, to see 
you." 

Private Richard Doubledick began to find 
a film stealing over the floor at which he 
looked ; also to find the legs of the Captain's 
breakfast-table turning crooked, as if he 
saw them through water. 

“ I am only a common soldier, sir," said 
he. “ It signifies very little what such a 
poor brute comes to." 

“ You are a man," returned the Captain 
with grave indignation, “ of education and 
superior advantages ; and if you say that, 
meaning what you say, you have sunk lower 
than I had believed. How low that must 
be, I leave you to consider : knowing what I 
know of your disgrace, and seeing what I 
see." 

“ I hope to get shot soon, sir," said Private 
Richard Doubledick ; “ and then the regi- 
ment, and the world together, will be rid of 
me." 

The legs of the table were becoming very 
crooked. Doubledick, looking up to steady 
his vision, met the eyes that had so strong 
an influence over him. He put his hand 
before his own eyes, and the breast of his 


8 


DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 


disgrace-jacket swelled as if it would fly 
asunder. 

“ I would rather," said the young Cap- 
tain, “ see this in you. Doubledick, than I 
would see five thousand guineas counted out 
upon this table for a gift to my good mother. 
Have you a mother ?" 

“I am thankful to say she is dead, sir." 

“ If your praise," returned the Captain, 
“ were sounded from mouth to mouth 
through the whole regiment, through the 
whole army, through the whole country, 
you would wish she had lived, to say with 
pride and joy, ‘ He is my son !' " 

“ Spare me, sir ;" said Doubledick. “ She 
would never have heard any good of me. 
She would never have had any pride and joy 
in owning herself my mother. Love and 
compassion she might have had, and would 

have always had, I know ; but not Spare 

me, sir ! I am a broken wretch, quite at 
your mercy !" And he turned his face to 
the wall, and stretched out his* imploring 
hand. 

“ My friend " began the captain. 

“ God bless you, sir !" sobbed Private 
Richard Doubledick. 

‘ You are at the crisis of your fate. Hold 
your course unchanged, a little longer, and 
ou know what must happen, /know even 
etter than you can imagine, that after that 
has happened, you are lost. No man who 
could shed those tears, could bear those 
marks." 

“ I fully believe it, sir," in a low, shiver- 
ing voice, said Private Richard Doubledick. 

“ But a man in any station can do his 
duty," said the young Captain, “ and, in 
doing it, can earn his own respect, even if 
his case should be so very unfortunate and 
so very rare, that he can earn no other man's. 
A common soldier, poor brute though you 
called him just now, has this advantage in 
the stormy times we live in, that he always 
does his duty before a host of sympathising 
witnesses. Do you doubt that he may so do 
it as to be extolled through a whole regi- 
ment, through a whole army, through a 
whole country ? Turn while you may yet 
retrieve the past, and try." 

“ I will I I ask for only one witness, sir," 
cried Richard, with a bursting heart. 

“ I understand you. I will be a watchful 
and a faithful one." 

I have heard from Private Richard Double- 
dick's own lips, that he dropped down upon 
his knee, kissed that officer’s hand, arose, 
and went out of the light of the dark bright 
eyes, an altered man. 

In that year, one thousand seven hundred 
and ninety-nine, the French were in Egypt, 
in Italy, in Germany, where not ? Napoleon 
Buonaparte had likewise begun to stir against 
us in India, and most men could read the 
signs of the great troubles that were coming 
on. In the very next year, when we formed 


an alliance with Austria against him, Cap- 
tain Taunton's regiment was on service in 
India. And there was not a finer non-com- 
missioned officer in it — no, nor in the whole 
line — than Corporal Richard Doubledick.^ 

In eighteen hundred and one, the Indian 
army were on the coast of Egypt. Next 
year was the year of the proclamation of the 
short peace, and they were recalled. It had 
then become well known to thousands of 
men, that wherever Captain Taunton, with 
the dark bright eyes, led, there, close to him, 
ever at his side, firm as a rock, true as the 
sun, and brave as Mars, would be certain to 
be found, while life beat in their hearts, 
that famous soldier, Sergeant Richard 
Doubledick. 

Eighteen hundred and five, besides being 
the great year of Trafalgar, was a year of 
hard fighting in India. That year saw such 
wonders done by a Sergeant-Major, who cut 
his way single-handed through a*solid mass 
of men, recovered the colors of his regiment 
which had been seized from the hand of a 
poor boy shot through the heart, and rescued 
his wounded captain, who was down, and in 
a very jungle of horses' hoofs and sabres — 
saw such wonders done, I say, by this brave 
Sergeant-Major, that he was especially made 
the bearer of the colors he had worn ; and 
Ensign Richard Doubledick had risen from 
the ranks. 

Sorely cut up in every battle, but always 
reinforced by the bravest of men — for, the 
fame of following the old colours, shot 
through and through, which Ensign Richard 
Doubledick had saved, inspired all breasts — 
this regiment fought its way through the 
Peninsular war, up to the investment of 
Badajos in eighteen hundred and twelve. 
Again and again it had been cheered through 
the British ranks until the tears had sprung 
into men's eyes at the mere hearing of the 
mighty British voice so exultant in their 
valor ; and there was not a drummer-boy 
but knew the legend, that wherever the two 
friends. Major Taunton with the dark bright 
eyes, and Ensign Richard Doubledick who 
was devoted to him, were seen to go, there 
the boldest spirits in the English army be- 
came wild to follow. 

One day, at Badajos — not in the great 
storming, but in repelling a hot sally of the 
besieged upon our men at work in the 
trenches, who had given way, the two officers 
found themselves hurrying forward, face to 
face, against a party of French infantry who 
made a stand. There was an officer at their 
head, encouraging his men — a courageous, 
handsome, gallant officer of five and thirty — 
whom Doubledick saw hurriedly, almost 
momentarily, but saw well. He particularly 
noticed this officer waving his sword, and 
rallying his men with an eager and excited 
cry, when they fired in obedience to his 
gesture, and Major Taunton dropped. 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


It was over in ten minutes more, and 
Doubledick returned to the spot where he 
had laid the best friend man ever had, on 
a coat spread upon the wet clay. Major 
Taunton’s uniform was opened at the breast, 
and on his shirt were three little spots of 
blood. 

“ Dear Doubledick,” said he, “ I am 
dying.” 

“ For the love of Heaven, no !” exclaimed 
the other, kneeling down beside him, and 
assing his arm round his neck to raise his 
ead. “ Taunton ! My preserver, my guar- 
dian angel, my witness ! Dearest, truest, 
kindest of human beings I Taunton I For 
God’s sake!” 

The bright dark eyes — so very, very dark 
now, in the pale face — smiled upon him ; 
and the hand he had kissed thirteen years 
ago, laid itself fondly on his breast. 

“ "Write to my mother. You will see home 
again. Tell her how we became friends. It 
will comfort her as it comforts me.” 

He spoke no more, but faintly signed for 
a momecit towards his hair as it fluttered in 
the wind. The Ensign understood him. He 
smiled again when he saw that, and gently 
turning his face over on the supporting arm 
as if for rest, died, with his hand upon the 
breast in which he had revived a soul. 

No dry eye looked on Ensign Richard 
Doubledick, that melancholy day. He buried 
his friend on the field, and became a lone, be- 
reaved man. Beyond his duty he appeared 
to have but two remaining cares in life ; one, 
to preserve the little packet of hair he was to 
give to Taunton’s mother ; the other, to en- 
counter that French ofl&cer who had rallied 
the men under whose fire Taunton fell. A 
new legend now began to circulate among 
our troops ; and it was, that when he and the 
French officer came face to face once more, 
there would be weeping in France. 

The war went on — and through it went the 
exact picture of the French officer on the one 
side, and the bodily reality upon the other — 
until the Battle of Toulouse was fought. In 
the returns sent home, appeared these words; 
“ Severely wounded, but not dangerously, 
Lieutenant Richard Doubledick.” 

At Midsummer time in the year eighteen 
hundred and fourteen. Lieutenant Richard 
Doubledick, now a browned soldier, seven 
and thirty years of agO, came home to Eng- 
land, invalided. He brought the hair with 
him, near his heart. Many a French officer 
had he seen, since that day ; many a dread- 
ful night, in searching with men and lanterns 
for his wounded, had he relieved French offi- 
cers lying disabled ; biit the mental picture 
and the reality had never come together. 

Though he was weak and suffered pain, he 
lost not an hour in getting down to Frome 
in Somersetshire, where Taunton’s mother 
lived. In the sweet compassionate words that 
naturally present themselves to the mind 


9 

to-night, “ he was the only son of his mother, 
and she was a widow.” 

It was a Sunday evening and the lady sat 
at her quiet garden-window, reading the Bi- 
ble ; reading to herself, in a trembling voice, 
that very passage in it as I have heard him 
tell. He heard the words, “ Young man, I 
say unto thee, arise I” 

He had to pass the window ; and the bright 
dark eyes of his debased time seemed to look 
at him. Her heart told her who he was ; she 
came to the door, quickly, and fell upon his 
neck. 

“ He saved me from ruin, made me a hu- 
man creature, won me from infamy and 
shame. 0 God, for ever bless him ! As H© 
will, H^ will !” 

“ He will !” the lady answered. “ I know 
he is in Heaven !” Then she piteously 
cried, “ But, O, my darling boy, my darling 
boy !” 

Never, from the hour when Private Rich- 
ard Doubledick enlisted at Chatham, had 
the^ Private, Corporal, Sergeant, Sergeant- 
Major, Ensign, or Lieutenant, breathed his 
right name, or the name of Mary Marshall, 
or a word of the story of his life, into any 
ear, except his reclaimer’s. That previous 
scene in his existence was closed. He had 
firmly resolved that his expiation should be, 
to live unknown; to disturb no more the 
peace that had long grown over his old 
offences ; to let it be revealed when he was 
dead, that he had striven and suffered, and 
had never forgotten ; and then, if they could 
forgive him and believe him — well, it would 
be time enough — time enough I 

But, that night, remembering the words he 
had cherished for two years, “ Tell her how 
we became friends. It will comfort her, as it 
comforts me,” he related everything. It 
gradually seemed to him, as if in his matu- 
rity he had recovered a mother ; it gradually 
seemed to her,' as if in her bereavement she 
had found a spfl. During his stay in Eng- 
land, the quiet garden into which he had 
slowly and painfully crept, a stranger, be- 
came the boundary of his home ; when he 
was able to rejoin his regiment in the spring, 
he left the garden, thinking was this indeed 
the first time he had ever turned his face 
towards the old colors, with a woman’* 
blessing I 

He followed them — so ragged, so scarred 
and pierced now, that they would scarcely 
hold together — to Quatre Bras, and Ligny. 
He stood beside them, in an awful stillness 
of many men, shadowy through the mist and 
drizzle of a wet June forenoon, on the field 
of "Waterloo. And down to that hour, the 
picture in his mind of the French officer had 
never been compared with the reality. 

The famous regiment was in action early 
in the battle, and received its first check in 
many an eventful year, when he was seen to 
fall. But it swept on to avenge him, and 


10 


DICKENS’ NEW ST0R1E». 


left behind no such creature in the world of 
consciousness, as Lieutenant Richard Dou- 
bledick. 

Through pits of mire, and pools of rain ; 
along deep ditches, once roads, that were 
pounded and ploughed to pieces by artillery, 
heavy waggons, tramp of men and horses, 
and the struggle of every wheeled thing that 
could carry wounded soldiers ; jolted among 
the dying and the dead, so disfigured by 
blood and mud as to be hardly recognisable 
for humanity ; undisturbed by the moaning 
of men and the shrieking of horses, which, 
newly taken from the peaceful pursuits of 
life, could not endure the sight of the strag- 
glers lying by the wayside, never to resume 
their toilsome journey ; dead, as to any sen- 
tient life that was in it, and yet alive ; the 
form that had been Lieutenant Richard Dou- 
bledick, with whose praises England rang, 
was conveyed to Brussels. There, it was 
tenderly laid down in hospital; and there 
it lay, week after week, through the long 
bright summer days, until the harvest, spared 
by war, had ripened and was gathered in. 

Over and over again the sun rose and set 
upon the crowded city ; over and over again, 
the moonlight nights were quiet on the 
plains of Waterloo ; and all that time was a 
blank to what had been Lieutenant Richard 
Doubledick. Rejoicing troops marched into 
Brussels, and marched out ; brothers and 
fathers, sisters, mothers, and wives, came 
thronging thither, drew their lots of joy or 
agony, and departed ; so many times a day, 
the bells rang ; so many times, the shadows 
of the great building changed; so many 
lights sprang up at dusk ; so many feet passed 
here and there upon the pavements ; so many 
hours of sleep and cooler air of night suc- 
ceeded ; indifferent to all, a marble face lay 
on a bed, like the face of a recumbent 
statue on the tomb of Lieutenant Richard 
Doubledick. 

Slowly labouring, at last, through a long 
heavy dream of confused time and place, pre- 
senting faint glimpses of army surgeons 
whom he knew, and of faces that had been 
familiar to his youth — dearest and kindest 
among them, Mary Marshall’s, with a solici- 
tude upon it more like reality than anything 
he could discern — Lieutenant Richard Dou- 
bledick came back to life. To the beautiful 
life of a calm autumn evening sunset. To 
the peaceful life of a fresh quiet room with 
a large window standing open ; a balcony, 
beyond, in which were moving leaves and 
sweet-smelling flowers ; beyond again, the 
clear sky, with, the sun full in his sight, 
pouring its golden radiance on his bed. 

It was so tranquil and so lovely, that he 
thought he had passed into another world. 
And he said in a faint voice, “ Taunton, are 
you near me V* 

A face bent over him. Not his; his 
mother’s. 


“ I came to nurse you. We have nursed 
you many weeks. You were moved here, 
long ago. Do you remember nothing ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

The lady kissed his cheek, and held his 
hand, soothing him. 

“Where is the regiment? What has 
happened ? Let me call you mother. What 
has happened, mother ?” 

“ A great victory, dear. ' The war is over, 
and the regiment was the bravest in the 
field.” 

His eyes kindled, his lips trembled, he 
sobbed, and the tears ran down his face. 
He was very weak : too weak to move his 
hand. 

“Was it dark just now?” he asked pre- 
sently. 

“ No.” 

“It was only dark to me? Something 
passed away, like a black shadow. But as it 
went, and the sun — 0 the blessed sun, how 
beautiful it is I — touched my face, I thought 
I saw a light white cloud pass out at the 
door. Was there nothing that went out?” 

She shook her head, and, in a little while, 
he fell asleep : she still holding his hand, 
and soothing him. 

From that time, he recovered. Slowly, for 
he had been desperately wounded in the 
head, and had been shot in the body ; but, 
making some little advance every day. When 
he had gained sufficient strength to converse 
as he lay in bed, he soon began to remark 
that Mrs. Taunton always brought him back 
to his own history. Then, he recalled his 
preserver’s dying words, and thought, “ it 
comforts her.” 

One day, he awoke out of a sleep, re- 
freshed, and asked her to read to him. But, 
the curtain of the bed, softening the light, 
which she always drew back when he awoke, 
that she might see him from her table at the 
bed-side where she sat at work, was held 
undrawn ; and a woman’s voice spoke, which 
was not hers. 

“ Can you bear to see a stranger ?” it said 
softly. “ Will you like to see a stranger ?” 

“ Stranger 1” he repeated. The voice 
awoke old memories, before the days of Pri- 
vate Richard Doubledick. 

“A stranger now, but not a stranger 
once,” it said in tones that thrilled him. 
“ Richard, dear Richard, lost through so 
many years, my name ” 

He cried out her name, “ Mary !” and she 
held him in her arms, and his head lay on 
her bosom. 

“lam not breaking a rash vow, Richard. 
These are not Mary Marshall’s lips that 
speak. I have another name.” 

She was married. 

“ I have another name, Richard. Did you 
ever hear it ?” 

“ Never !” 

He looked into her face, so pensively beau- 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


tiful, and wondered at the smile upon it 
throuojh her tears. 

“ 1 hink again, Richard. Are you sure 
you never heard my altered name V’ 

“ Never V’ 

“ Don’t move your head to look at me, 
dear Richard. Let it lie here, while I tell 
my story. I loved a generous, noble man ; 
loved him with my whole heart ; loved him 
for years and years ; loved him faithfully, 
devotedly ; loved him with no hope of return ; 
loved him, knowing nothing of his highest 
qualities — not even knowing that he was 
alive. He was a brave soldier. He was 
honoured and beloved by thousands of thou- 
sands, when the mother of his dear friend 
found me, and showed me that in all his tri- 
umphs he had never forgotten me. He was 
wounded in a great battle. He was brought, 
dying, here, into Brussels, I came to watch 
and tend him, as I would have joyfully gone, 
with such a purpose, to the dreariest ends 
of the earth. When he knew no one else he 
knew me. When he suffered most, he bore 
his sufferings barely murmuring, content to 
rest his head where yours rests now. When 
he lay at the point of death, he married me, 
that he might call me wife before he died. 
And the name, my dear love, that I took on 
that forgotten night ” 

“ I know it now !” he sobbed. “ The sha- 
dowy remembrance strengthens. It is come 
back. I thank heaven that my mind is quite 
restored ! My Mary, kiss me ; lull this weary 
head to rest, or I shall die of gratitude. His 
parting words are fulfilled. I see home 
again I” 

AVell ! They were happy. It was a long 
recovery, but they were happy through it 
all. The snow had melted on the ground, 
and the birds were singing in the leafless 
thickets of the early spring, when these three 
were first able to ride out together, and when 
people flocked about the open carriage to 
cheer and congratulate Captain Richard 
Doubledick. 

But, even then, it became necessary for 
the Captain, instead of returning to England, 
to complete his recovery in the climate of 
Southern France. They found a spot upon 
the Rhone, within a ride of the old town of 
Avignon, and within view of its broken 
bridge, which was all they could desire ; 
they lived there, together, six months ; then 
returned to England. Mrs. Taunton growing 
old after three years — though not so old as 
that her bright dark eyes were dimmed — 
and remembering that her strength had been 
benefitted by the change, resolved to go back 
for a year to those parts. So she went with 
a faithful servant, who had often carried her 
son in his arms; and she was to be rejoined 
and escorted home, at the year’s end, by 
Captain Richard Doubledick. 

She wrote regularly to her children (as she 
called them now), and they to her. She 


went to the neighborhood of Aix ; and there, 
in their own chateau near the farmer’s house 
she rented, she grew into intimacy with a 
family belonging to that part of France. 
The intimacy began, in her often meeting 
among the vineyards a pretty child : a girl 
with a^ most compassionate heart, who was 
never tired of listening to the solitary English 
lady’s stories of her poor son and the cruel 
wars. The family were as gentle as the child, 
and at length she came to know them so 
well, that she accepted their invitation to 
pass the last month of her residence abroad, 
under their roof. All this intelligence she 
wrote home, piecemeal as it came about, 
from time to time ; and, at last, enclosed a 
polite note from the head of the chateau, so- 
liciting, on the occasion of his approaching 
mission to that neighborhood, the honour 
of the company of cet homme si justement 
c6Rbre Monsieur le Capitaine Richard 
Doubledick. 

Captain Doubledick ; now a hardy, hand- 
some man in the full vigor of life, broader 
across the chest and shoulders than he had 
ever been before ; dispatched a courteous 
reply, and followed it in person. Travelling 
through all that extent of country after three 
years of peace, he blessed the better days on 
which the world had fallen. The corn was 
golden, not drenched in unnatural red ; was 
bound in sheaves for food, not trodden under- 
foot by men in mortal fight. The smoke rose 
up from peaceful hearths, not blazing ruins. 
The carts were laden with the fair fruits of 
the earth, not with wounds and death. To 
him who had so often seen the terrible re- 
verse, these things were beautiful indeed, 
and they brought him in a softened spirit to 
the old chateau near Aix, upon a deep blue 
evening. 

It was a large chateau of the genuine old 
ghostly kind, with round towers, and extin- 
guishers, and a high leaden roof, and more 
windows than Aladdin’s Palace. The lattice 
blinds were all thrown open, after the heat of 
the day, and there were glimpses of rambling 
walls and corridors within. Then, there 
were immense outbuildings fallen into par- 
tial decay, masses of dark trees, terrace- 
gardens, balustrades ; tanks of water, too 
weak to play and too dirty to work ; statues, 
weeds, and thickets of iron railing, that 
seemed to have overgrown themselves like 
the shrubberies, and to have branched out 
in all manner of wild shapes. The entrance 
doors stood open, as doors often do in that 
country when the heat of the day is past; 
and the Captain saw no bell or knocker, and 
walked in. 

He walked into a lofty stone hall, refresh- 
ingly cool and gloomy after the glare of a 
southern day’s travel. Extending along the 
four sides of this hall, was a gallery, leading 
to suites of rooms; and it was lighted from 
the top. Still no bell was to be seen. 


12 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


“ Faith/^ said the Captain, halting, 
ashamed of the clanking of his boots, “ this 
is a ghostly beginning 

He started back, and felt his face turn 
white. In the gallery, looking down at him, 
stood the French officer ; the officer whose 
picture he had carried in his mind so long 
and so far. Compared with the original, at 
last — in every lineament how like it was I 

He moved and disappeared, and Captain 
Richard Doubledick heard his steps coming 
quickly down into the hall. He entered 
through an archway. There was a bright, 
sudden look upon his face. Much such a 
look as it had worn in that fatal moment. 

Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Double- 
dick ? Enchanted to receive him ! A thou- 
sand apologies I The servants were all out 
in the air. There was a little fete among 
them in the garden. In effect, it was the 
fete day of my daughter, the little cherished 
and protected of Madame Taunton. 

He was so gracious and so frank, that 
Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick 
could not withhold his hand. “ It is the hand 
of a brave Englishman, said the French 
officer, retaining it while he spoke. “ I could 
respect a brave Englishman, even as my foe ; 
how much more as my friend I I, also, am 
a soldier 

“He has not remembered me, as I have 
remembered him ; he did not take such note 
of my face, that day, as I took of his,'^ 
thought Captain Richard Doubledick. “ How 
shall I tell him V’ 

The French officer conducted his guest 
into a garden, and presented him to his wife ; 
an engaging and beautiful woman, sitting 
with Mrs. Taunton in a whimsical old- 
fashioned pavilion. His daughter, her fair 
young face beaming with joy, came running 
to embrace him ; and there was a boy-baby 
to tumble down among the orange-trees on 
the broad steps, in making for his father’s 
legs. A multitude of children-visitors were 
dancing to sprightly music ; and all the ser- 
vants and peasants about the chateau were 
dancing too. It was a scene of innocent 
happiness that might have been invented for 
the climax of the scenes of peace which had 
soothed the Captain’s journey. 

He looked on, greatly troubled in his mind, 
until a resounding bell rang, and the French 
officer begged to show him his rooms. They 
went up stairs into the gallery from which 
the officer had looked down ; and Monsieur le 
Capitaine Richard Doubledick was cordially 
welcomed to a grand outer chamber, and a 
smaller one witMn, all clocks and draperies, 
and hearths, and brazen dogs, and tiles, and 
cool devices, and elegance, and vastness. 

“You were at Waterloo,” said the French 
officer. 

“ I was,” said Captain Richard Double- 
dick. “And at Badajos.” 

Left alone with the sound of his own stern 


voice in his ears, he sat down to consider, 
What shall I do, and how shall I tell him ? 
At that time, unhappily, many deplorable 
duels had been fought between English and 
French officers, arising out of the recent war ; 
and these duels, and how to avoid this offi- 
cer’s'hospitality, were the uppermost thought 
in Captain Richard Doubledick’s mind. 

He was thinking and letting the time run 
out in which he should have dressed for 
dinner, when Mrs. Taunton spoke to him 
outside the door, asking if he could give her 
the letter he had brought from Mary. “ His 
mother, above all,” the Captain thought, 
“ How shall I tell her 

“You will form a friendship with your 
host, I hope,” said Mrs. Taunton, whom 
he hurriedly admitted, “that will last for 
life. He is so true-hearted and so generous, 
Richard, that you can hardly fail to esteem 
one another. If he had been spared,” she 
kissed (not without tears) the locket in 
which she wore his hair, “ he would have 
appreciated him with his own magnanimity, 
and would have been truly happy that the 
evil days were past, which made such a man 
his enemy.” 

She left the room ; and the Captain walked, 
first to one window, whence he could see the 
dancing in the garden, then to another 
window, whence he could see the smiling 
prospect and the peaceful vineyards. 

“ Spirit of my departed friend,” said he, 
“is it through thee, these better thoughts 
are rising in my mind! Is it thou who hast 
shown me, all the way I have been drawn 
to meet this man, the blessings of the altered 
time I Is it thou who hast sent thy stricken 
mother to me, to stay my angry hand I Is 
it from thee the whisper comes, that this 
man did his duty as thou didst — and as I 
did, through thy guidance, which has wholly 
saved me, here on earth — and that he did no 
more !” 

He sat down, with his head buried in his 
hands, and, when he rose up, made the se- 
cond strong resolution of his life : That 
neither to the French officer, nor to the 
mother of his departed friend, nor to any 
soul while either of the two was living, 
would he breathe what only he knew. And 
when he touched that French officer’s glass 
with his own, that day at dinner, he secretly 
forgave him in the name of the Divine For- 
giver of injuries. 

Here I ended my story as the first Poor 
Traveller. But, if I had told it now, I could 
have added that the time has since come 
when the son of Major Richard Doubledick, 
and the son of that French officer, friends as 
their fathers were before them, fought side 
by side in one cause : with their respective 
nations, like long-divided brothers whom the 
better times have brought together, fast 
united. 


THE SECOND POOR TRAVELLER. 


I AM, by trade (said the man with his arm 
in a sling), a shipwright. I am recovering 
from an unlucky chop that one of my mates 
gave me with an adze. When I am all right 
again, I shall get taken on in Chatham 
Yard. I have nothing else in particular to 
tell of myself, so Til tell a bit of a story of a 
seaport town. 

Acon-Virlaz, the jeweller, sat in his shop 
on the Common Hard of Belleriport, smoking 
his evening pipe. Business was tolerably 
brisk in Belleriport just then. The great 
three-decker, the Blunderbore (Admiral 
Pumpkinseed^s flag-ship), had just come in 
from the southern seas with the rest of the 
squadron, and had been paid ofi*. The big 
screw line-of-battle ship Fantail, Captain Sir 
Heaver Cole, K.C.B., had got her blue-peter 
up for Kamschatka, and her crew had been 
paid advance wages. The Dundrum war- 
steamer was fresh coppering in the graving 
dock, and her men were enjoying a three 
weeks’ run ashore. The Barracouta, the 
Calabash, the Skullsmasher, and the Nose- 
ring had returned from the African station 
with lots of prize-money from captured 
slavers. The Jollyport division of Boyal 
Marines — who had plenty of money to 
spend, and spent it too ; occupied the Ma- 
rine barracks. The Ninety-eight Plungers, 
together with the depot companies of the 
Fourteenth Royal Screamers, had marched 
in to relieve the Seventy-third Wrestlers. 
There was some thought of embodying, for 
garrison duty, in Belleriport, the Seventh or 
West Swarapshire Drabs regiment of Militia. 
Belleriport was full of sailors, soldiers and 
marines. Seven gold-laced cocked hats could 
be observed on the door steps of the George 
Hotel at one time. Almost 6very lady’s 
bonnet in the High Street had a military or 
naval officer’s head looking under it. You 
could scarcely get into Miss Pyeboard the 
pastry-cook’s shop for midshipmen. There 
were so many soldiers in the streets, that 
you were inclined to take the whole of the 
population of Belleriport for lobsters, and to 
imagine that half of them were boiled and 
the other half waiting to be. The Common 
Hard was as soft as a featherbed with sailors. 
Lieutenant Hook at the Rendezvous was 
busy all day enrolling A B’s, ordinaries, 
and stout lads. The Royal Grubbington 
victualling yard was turning out thousands 
of barrels of salt beef and pork and sea bis- 
cuit per diem. Huge guns were being 
hoisted on board ship ; seaman-riggers, caulk- 


ers, carpenters, and shipwrights, were all 
some hundreds of degrees busier than bees ; 
and^ sundry gentlemen in the dockyard, 
habited in simple suits of drab, marked 
with the broad arrow — with striped stock- 
ings and glazed hats, and after whose per- 
sonal safety sentinels with fixed bayonets 
and warders in oilskin coats afiectionately 
looked — were busy too, in their way : drag- 
ging about chain-cables, blocks and spars ; 
and heavy loads of timber, steadily but sul- 
kily; and, in their close-shaven, beetle- 
browed countenances, evincing a silent but 
profound disgust. 

Aeon Virlaz had not done so badly dur- 
ing Belleriport’s recent briskness. He was 
a jeweller ; and sold watches, rings, chains, 
bracelets, snufi’-boxes, brooches, shirt-studs, 
sleeve-buttons, pencil-cases, and true lovers’ 
knots. But his trade in jewels did not inter- 
fere with his also vending hammocks, tele- 
scopes, sou’wester hats, lime-juice, maps, 
charts and log-books, Guernsey shirts, clasp 
knives, pea-coats, preserved meats, razors, 
swinging lamps, sea-chests, dancing-pumps, 
eye-glasses, water-proof overalls, patent 
blacking, and silk pocket-handkerchiefs em- 
blazoned with the flags of all nations. Nor 
did his dealings in these articles prevent 
him from driving a very tidy little business 
in the purchase of gold dust, elephants’ teeth, 
feathers and bandanas, from home-returned 
sailors ; nor (so the censorious said) from the 
cashing of seamen’s advance notes, and the 
discounting of the acceptances of the officers 
of her majesty’s army and navy ; nor (so 
the downright libellous asserted) from doing 
a little in the wine line, and a little in the 
picture line, and a good deal, when occasion 
required it, in the crimp line. 

Acon-Virlaz sat in his shop on the Com- 
mon Hard of Belleriport smoking his evening 
pipe. It was in the back shop that Acon- 
Virlaz sat. Above his head, hung the ham- 
mocks, the pilot-trowsers narrow at the knees 
and wide at the ancles, and the swinging 
lamps, and the water-proof overalls. The 
front shop loomed dimly through a grove of 
pea-coats, sou’-wester hats, Guernsey shirts, 
and cans of preserved meats. One little gas jet 
in the back shop — for the front gas was not yet 
lighted — flickered on the heterogeneous arti- 
cles hanging and heaped up together all 
around. The gas just tipped with light the 
brass knobs of the drawers which ran round 
all the four sides of the shop, tier above tier, 
and held Moses knows how many more trea 


14 


DICKENS’ NE^7 STORIES. 


tfures of watchmaking, tailoring, and outfit- 
ting. The gas, just defined by feebly-shin- 
ing threads, the salient lines and angles of a 
great iron safe in one corner ; and finally the 
gas just gleamed — twinkled furtively, like 
a magpie looking into a marrow bone — upon 
the heap of jewelry collected upon the 
great slate-covered counter in Acon-Virlaz’s 
back shop. 

The counter was covered with slate ; for, 
upon it Acon-Virlaz loved to chalk his cal- 
culations. It was ledger, day-book, and 
journal, all in one. The little curly headed 
Jew boy who was clerk, shopman, messen- 
ger, and assistant-measurer, in the tailoring 
department of the establishment, would as 
soon have thought of eating roast sucking- 
pig beneath Acon-Virlaz’s nose, as of wiping, 
dusting, or, indeed, touching the sacred slate 
counter without special permission and au- 
thority from Acon-Virlaz himself. 

By the way, it was not by that name that 
the jeweller and outfitter was known in Bel- 
leriport. He went by a simpler, homelier, 
shorter appellation ; Moses, Levy, Sheeny — 
what you will ; it does not much matter 
which ; for most of the Hebrew nation have 
an inner name as well as an inner and richer 
life. 

Acon-Virlaz was a little, plump, round, 
black-eyed, red-lipped, blue-bearded man. 
Age had begun to discount his head, and 
had given him sixty per cent, of gray hairs. 
A-top he was bald, and wore a little skull- 
cap. He had large fat hands, all creased 
and tumbled, as if his skin were too large 
for him ; and, on one forefinger, he wore a 
great cornelian signet-ring, about which 
there were all sorts of legends. Miriam, 

his daughter, said but what have I to do 

with Miriam, his daughter? She does not 
enter into this history at all. 

The evening pipe that Acon-Virlaz was 
smoking was very mild and soothing. The 
blue haze went curling softly upwards, and 
seemed to describe pleasant figures of £. s. d. 
as it ascended. Through the grove, across 
the front shop, Acon-Virlaz could see little 
specks of gas from the lamps in the street ; 
could hear Barney, his little clerk and shop- 
boy, softly whistling as he kept watch and 
ward upon the watches in the front window 
and the habiliments exposed for sale outside ; 
could hear the sounds of a fiddle from the Ad- 
miral Nelson next door, where the men-of- 
wars-men were dancing ; could by a certain, 
pleasant, subtle smell from regions yet far- 
ther back, divine that Mrs. Virlaz (her father 
was a Bar-Galli, and worth hills of gold) was 
cooking something nice for supper. 

From the pleasures of his pipe Acon-Virlaz 
turned to the pleasures of his jewelry. It 
lay there on the slate-covered counter, rich 
and rare. Big diamonds, rubies, opals, eme- 
ralds, sapphires, amethysts, topazes, turquoi- 
ses, and pearls. By the jewels lay gold. 


Gold in massy chains, in mourning rings, in 
massy bracelets, in chased snuff-boxes — in 
gold snuff too — that is in dingy, dull dust 
from the Guinea coast ; in flakes and mis- 
shapen lumps from the mine ; in toy-watches, 
in brave chronometers, in lockets, vinai- 
grettes, brooches, and such woman’s gear. 
The voice of the watches was dumb ; the 
little flasks were scentless ; but, how much 
beauty, life, strength, power, lay in these 
coloured baubles ! Acon-Virlaz sighed. 

Here, a little clock in the front shop, which 
nestled ordinarily in the midst of a wilder- 
ness of boots, and thought apparently a 
great deal more of itself than its size war- 
ranted, after a prodigious deal of running 
down, gasping, and clucking, struck nine. 
Acon-Virlaz laid down his pipe, and turning 
the gas a little higher, was about calling out 
to Mrs. Virlaz, that daughter of Bar-Galli 
(she was very stout, and fried fish in sky- 
blue satin), to know what she had got for 
supper, when a dark body became mistily 
apparent in the recesses of the grove of 
Guernsey shirts and sou’-westers, shutting 
out the view of the distant specks of gas in 
the street beyond. At the same time, a 
voice, that seemed to run upon a tramway, so 
smooth and sliding was it, said, three or 
four times over, “ How is to-night with you, 
Mr. Virlaz — how is it with you this beauti- 
ful night? Aha !” 

The voice and the body belonged to a 
gentleman of Mr. Virlaz’s persuasion, who 
was stout and large, and very elastic in 
limb, and very voluble in delivery, in the 
which there was, I may remark, a tendency 
to reiteration, and an oily softness (inducing 
an idea that the tramway I mentioned had 
been sedulously greased), and a perceptible 
lisp. Mr. Virlaz’s friend rubbed his hands 
(likewise smooth and well greased) con- 
tinually. He was somewhat loosely jointed, 
which caused him to wag his head from 
side to side as he talked, after the fashion 
of an image ; and his face would have been 
a great deal handsomer if his complexion 
had not been quite so white and pasty, and 
his eyes not quite so pink, and both together 
not quite so like a suet pudding with two 
raisins in it. Mr. Virlaz’s friend’s name 
was Mr. Ben-Daoud, and he came from 
Westhampton, where he discounted bills 
and sold clocks. 

“Take a seat, Ben,” said the jeweller, 
when he had recognized his friend and 
shaken hands with him ; “ Mrs. V. will be 
down directly. All well at home? Take 
a pipe ?” 

“ I will just sit down a little minute, and 
thank you, Mr. Virlaz,” Ben-Daoud an- 
swered volubly ; “ and all are well but little 
Zeeky, who has thrushes, and has swollen, 
the dear child, much since yesterday ; but 
beg Mrs. Virlaz not to disturb herself for 
me — for I am not long here, and will not 


15 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 


take a pipe, having a cold, and being about 
to go a long journey to-morrow. Aha!" 

All this Mr. Ben-Daoud said with the ex- 
treme volubility which I have noticed, and 
in the exact order in which his words are set 
down, but without any vocal punctuation. 
There was considerable doubt among the 
eople as to Mr. Ben-Daoud’s nationality, 
ome said that he came from Poland ; 
others,^ that he hailed from Frankfort-on 
the-Maine ; some inclined to the belief that 
Amsterdam, in Holland, was his natal 
place ; some, that Gibraltar had given him 
birth, or the still more distant land of Tan- 
gier. At all events, of whatsoever nation 
he was, or if not of any, he was for all 
Jewry, and knew the time of the day re- 
markably well. He had been in the rabbit- 
skin line of business before he took to selling 
clocks, to which he added, when regiments 
were in garrison, at Westhampton, the art 
of discounting. 

“Going on a journey, eh, Ben?" asked 
Acon-Virlaz. “ Business ?" 

“ Oh, business of course, Mr. Virlaz," his 
friend replied. “ Always business. I have 
some little moneys to look up, and some 
little purchases to make, and, indeed, hum- 
bly wish to turn a little penny ; for I have 
very many heavy calls to meet next month — 
a little bill or two of mine you hold, by the 
way, among the rest, Mr. Virlaz." 

“ True," the jeweller said, rather ner- 
vously, and putting his hand on a great 
leathern portfolio in his breast pocket, in 
which he kept his acceptances ; “ and shall 
you be long gone, Mr. Daoud ?" 

This “ Mr. Daoud," following upon the 
former familiar “Ben," was said without 
sternness, but spoke the creditor awakened 
to his rights. It seemed to say, “ Smoke, 
drink, and be merry till your ‘accepted 
payable at such a date’ comes due ; but pay 
then, or I’ll sell you up like death." 

Mr. Ben-Daoud seemed to have an inkling 
of this ; for, he wagged his head, rubbed his 
hands, and answered, more volubly than 
ever, “ Oh, as to that, Mr. Virlaz, dear sir, 
my journey is but of two days’ lasting. I 
shall be back the day after to-morrow, and 
with something noticeable in the way of 
diamonds. Aha !" 

“ Diamonds I" exclaimed Acon-Virlaz, 
glancing towards the drawer where his jew- 
els were ; for you may be sure he had 
swept them all away into safety before his 
friend had completed his entrance. “ Dia- 
monds I Where are you going for diamonds, 
Ben ?’’ 

“Why, to the great fair that is held to- 
morrow, Mr. Virlaz, as well you know." 

“ Fair, Ben I Is there any fair to-morrow 
near Belleriport ?" 

“ Why, bless my heart, Mr. Virlaz," 
Ben-Daoud responded, holding up his fat 
hands, “can it be that you, so respectable 


and noticeable a man among our people, 
don’t know that to-morrow is the great jewel 
fair that is held once in every hundred 
years, at which diamonds, rubies, and all 
other pretty stones are sold cheap— cheap 
as dirt, my dear— a hundred thousand gui- 
neas-worth for sixpence, one may say. Your 
grandfather must have been there, and well 
he made his market, you may be sure 
Aha 1 Good man I" 

“ I never heard of such a thing," gasped 
Acon-Virlaz, perfectly amazed and bewil- 
dered. “And what do you call this fair?" 

“Why, Sky Fair, as well you should 
know, dear sir." 

“Sky Fair?" repeated ‘■he jeweller. 

“ Sky Fair," answered Ben-Daoud. 

“ But whereabouts is it ?" 

“ Come here," the voluble man said. He 
took hold of Acon-Virlaz by the wrist, and 
led him through the grove of pea-coats into 
the front shop ; through the front shop into 
the open street: and then pointing upwards, 
he directed the gaze of the Jew to where, 
in the otherwise illuminated sky, there was 
shining one solitary star. 

“ Don’t it look pretty ?" he asked, sinking 
his voice into a confidential whisper. “Don’t 
it look like a diamond, and glitter and 
twinkle as if some of our people the lapi- 
daries in Amsterdam had cut it into faces ? 
That’s where Sky Fair is, Mr. Virlaz. 
Aha!" 

“ And you are going there to-morrow ?" 
Acon-Virlaz asked, glancing uneasily at his 
companion. 

“ Of course I am," Ben-Daoud replied, 
“with my little bag of money to make my 
little purchases. And saving your presence, 
dear sir, I think you will be a great fool if 
you don’t come with me, and make some 
little purchases too. For diamonds, Mr. 
Virlaz, are not so easily come by every day, 
as in Sky Fair ; and a hundred years is a 
long time to wait before one can make an- 
other such bargain." 

“ I’ll come, Ben," the jeweller cried, en- 
thusiastically. “ I’ll come ; and if e\ jT I 
can do you any little obligation in the way 
of moneys, I will." And he grasped the 
hand of Ben-Daoud, who sold clocks and 
discounted. 

“ Why, that’s right," the other returned. 
“And I’ll come for you at eight o’clock to- 
morrow, punctually ; so get your little bag 
of money, and your nightcap and a comb 
ready." 

“ But," the jeweller asked, with one re- 
turning tinge of suspicion, “ how ar ; we to 
get there, Ben ?’’ 

“Oh," replied Mr. Ben-Daoud, coolly, 
“ we’ll have a shay." 

Sky Fair ! — diamonds ! — cheap bargains ! 
Acon-Virlaz could think of nothing else all 
the time of supper, which was something 
very nice, indeed, in the fish w ,j, and 


16 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


into the cooking of which oil entered 
largely. He was so pre-occupied, that Mrs. 
Virlaz and Miriam, his daughter, who had 
large eyes and a coral necklace (for week 
days), were fain to ask him the cause there- 
of ; and he, like a good and tender husband 
and father as he was (and as most Hebrews, 
to their credit, are), told them of Ben-Da- 
oud's marvellous story, and of his intended 
journey. 

The next morning, as the clock struck 
eight, the sound of wheels was heard before 
Acon-Virlaz^s door, in the Common Hard of 
Belleriport, and a handful of gravel was 
playfully thrown against the first-floor win- 
dow by the hands of Ben-Daoud of West- 
hampton. 

But it needed no gravel, no noise of 
wheels, no striking of clocks, to awaken 
Acon-Virlaz. He had been up and dressed 
since six o’clock ; and, leaving Mrs. Virlaz 
peacefully and soundly sleeping, and hastily 
swallowing some hot coffee prepared by 
Barney the lad (to whom he issued strict 
injunctions concerning the conduct of the 
warehouse during the day), he descended 
into the street, and was affectionately hailed 
by his fellow-voyager to Sky Fair. 

The seller of clocks sat in the “ shay” of 
which he had spoken to Acon-Virlaz. It was 
a dusky little concern, very loose on its 
springs, and worn and rusty in its gear. 
As to the animal that drew it, Mr. Ben- 
Daoud mentioned b^ the way that it was a 
discount pony, having been taken as an 
equivalent for cash, in numberless bills 
negotiated in the Westhampton garrison, 
and had probably been worth, in his time, 
considerably more than his weight in gold. 

Said pony, if he was a rum ’un to look 
at — which, indeed, he was, being hairy 
where he should have been smooth, and 
having occasional bald places, as though he 
were in the habit of scratching himself with 
his hoofs — which hoofs, coupled with his 
whity-brown ankles, gave him the appear- 
ance of having indifferent bluchers and 
dirty white socks on — was a good ’un to go. 
So remarkably good was he in going, that 
he soon left behind the High street of Bel- 
leriport, where the shop-boys were sleepily 
taking down the shutters ; where house- 
maids were painfully elaborating the door- 
steps with hearth-stones, to be soiled by the 
first visiters’ dirty boots (such is the way of 
the world) ; where the milkman was making 
his early morning calls, and the night po- 
licemen were going home from duty; and 
the third lieutenant of the Blunderbore — 
who had been ashore on leave, and was a 
little shaken about the eyes still — was has- 
itening to catch the “beef-boat’ to convey 
him to his ship. Next, the town itself did 
the pony leave behind; the outskirts, the 
outlying villages, the ruined stocks and 
deserted pound, the Port-Admiral’s villa ; 


all these he passed, running as fast as a 
constable, or a bill, until he got at last into 
a broad white road, which Acon-Virlaz never 
remembered to have seen before ; a road 
with a high hedge on either side, and to 
which there seemed to be no end. 

Mr. Ben-Daoud drove the pony in first- 
rate style. His head and the animal’s 
wagged in concert ; and the more he flou- 
rished his whip, the more the pony went ; 
and both seemed to like it. The great white 
road sent up no dust. Its stones, if stones 
it had, never grated nor gave out a sound 
beneath the wheels of the “ shay.” It was 
only very white and broad, and seemed to 
have no end. 

Not always white, however; for, as 
they progressed, it turned in color first 
milky-gray, then what schoolboys call, in 
connection with the fluid served out to them 
at breakfast-time, sky-blue; then a deep, 
vivid, celestial blue. And the high hedge 
on either side melted by degrees into the 
same hue; and Acon-Virlaz began to feel 
curiously feathery about the body, and 
breezy about the lungs. He caught hold of 
the edge of the “ shay,” as though he were 
afraid of falling over. He shut his eyes 
from time to time, as though he were dizzy. 
He began to fancy that he was in the sky. 

“ There is Sky Fair, Mr. Virlaz !” Ben- 
Daoud suddenly said, pointing ahead with 
his whip. 

At that moment, doubtless through the 
superior attractions of Sky Fair, the dusky 
“shay” became of so little account to 
Acon-Virlaz as to disappear entirely from 
his sight and mind, though he had left his 
nightcap and comb (his little bag of money 
was safe in his, side-pocket, trust him) on 
the cushion. At the same moment, it must 
have occurred to the discount pony to put 
himself out at living in some very remote 
corner of creation, for he vanished alto- 
gether too ; and Acon-Virlaz almost fancied 
that he saw the beast’s collar fall fifty thou- 
sand fathoms five, true as a plumb-line, into 
space ; and the reins, which but a moment 
before Ben-Daoud had held, flutter loosely 
away, like feathers. 

He found himself treading upon a hard, 
loose, gritty surface, which, on looking 
down, appeared like diamond-dust. 

“ Which it is,” Mr. Ben-Daoud explained, 
when Acon-Virlaz timidly asked him. 
“ Cheap as dirt here I Capital place to 
bring your cast-iron razors to be sharpened, 
Mr. Virlaz,” 

The jeweller felt inclined for the mo- 
ment, to resent this pleasantry as somewhat 
personal ; for, to say truth, the razors in 
which he dealt were not of the primest 
steel. 

There was a great light. The brightest 
sun-light that Acon-Virlaz had ever seen, 
was but a poor farthing-candle compared to 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


this resplendency. There was a great gate 
through which they had to pass to the fair. 
The gate seemed to Acon-Virlaz as if all 
the jewelry and wrought gold in the world 
had been half-fused, half-welded together, 
into one monstrous arabesque or trellis- 
work. There was a little porter^s lodge by 
the gate,^ and a cunning-looking little man 
by it, with a large bunch of keys at his 
girdle. The thing seemed impossible and 
ridiculous ; yet Acon-Virlaz could not help 
fancying that he had seen the cunning little 
porter before, and, of all places in the world, 
in London, at the lock-up house in Cursitor 
street. Chancery Lane, kept by Mr. Mephi- 
bosheth, to whose red-headed little turnkey, 
Benjy, he bore an extraordinary resem- 
blance. 

Who is to tell of the glories of Sky Fair ? 
Who, indeed, unless he had a harp of gold, 
strung with diamonds ? Who is to tell of 
the long lines of dazzlingly white booths, 
hundreds, if not thousands, if not millions, 
of miles in extent, wdiere jewels of surpass- 
ing size and purest water were sold by the 
peck, like peas ; by the pound, like spice- 
nuts ; by the gallon, like table-beer ? Who 
is to tell of the swings, the round-abouts, 
the throwing of sticks, each stick sur- 
mounted by a diamond as big as an ostrich- 
egg ; the live armadillos, with their jewelled 
scales ; the scratchers, corruscating like me- 
teors ; the gingerbread kings and queens ; 
the whole fun of the fair one dazzling, 
blinding, radiating mass of gold and gems ! 

It was not Acon-Virlaz who could tell 
much about these wondrous things in after 
days ; for he was too occupied with his little 
bag of money and his little fairings. Ben- 
Daoud had spoken the truth ; diamonds 
were as cheap as dirt in Sky Fair. In an 
inconceivably short space of time, and by 
the expenditure of a few half-pence, the 
jeweller had laid in a stock of precious 
stones. But he was not satisfied with pock- 
ets-full, bags-full, hats-full of unset, uncut 
gems. There were heaps of jewelled trin- 
kets, chains, bracelets, rings, piled up for 
sale. He hankered after these. He bought 
heaps of golden rings. He decorated his 
wrists and ankles with bracelets and ban- 
gles enough for a Bayadere. He might 
have been a dog, for the collars round his 
neck. He might have been an Ambrose 
Gwynnett hung in chains, for the profusion 
of those ornaments in gold with which he 
loaded himself. And then he went in for 
solid services of plate, and might have been 
a butler or a philanthropist, for the piles of 
ewers, salvers, candelabra, and goblets, 
which he accumulated in his hands, under 
his arms, on his head. More gold! more 
jewels ! More I more — 

Till a bell began to ring, — a loud, clang- 
ing, voiceful golden bell, carried by a 
shining bellman, and the clapper of which 


was one huge diamond. The thousands of 
people whoj a moment before, had been 
purchasing jewels and gold, no sooner heard 
the bell than they began to scamper like 
mad towards the gate ; and, at the same 
time, Acon-Virlaz heard the bellman making 
proclamation that Sky Fair would close in 
ten minutes time, and that every man, wo- 
man, or child found within the precincts of 
the fair, were it only for the thousandth 
part of the tithe of a moment after the 
clock had struck Twelve, would be turned 
into stone for a hundred years. 

Till the men, women, and children from 
every nation under the sun (he had not ob- 
served them until now, so intent had he 
been on his purchases), came tearing past 
him ; treading on his toes, bruising his ribs, 
jostling him, pushing him from side to side, 
screaming to him with curses to move on 
quicker, or to get out of the way. But, he 
could not move on quicker. His gold stuck 
to him. His jewels weighed him down. In- 
visible clogs seemed to attach themselves to 
his feet. He kept dropping his precious 
wares, and, for the life of him, could not 
refrain from stopping to pick them up ; in 
doing which he dropped more. 

Till Mr. Ben-Daoud passed him with a 
girdle of big diamonds, tied round his waist 
in a blue bird’s-eye handkerchief, like a 
professional pedestrian. 

Till the great bell from ringing intermit- 
tent peals kept up one continuous clang. 
Till a clock above, like a Catherine wheel, 
which Acon-Virlaz had not before noticed, 
began to let off rockets of minutes, Roman 
candles of seconds. Till the bellman’s pro- 
clamation merged into one sustained roar of 
Oh yes I Oh yes ! Till the red-headed gate- 
keeper, who was like Mr. Mephibosheth’s 
turnkey, gave himself up to an unceasing 
scream of “ All out 1 All out !” whirling his 
keys above his head, so that they scattered 
sparks and flakes of fire all around. 

Till fifty thousand other bells began to 
clang, and fifty million other voices to 
scream. Till all at once there was silence,, 
and the clock began to strike slowly sadly. 
One, two, three, four — to Twelve. 

Acon-Virlaz was within a few feet of the 
gate when the fatal clock began to strike. 
By a desperate effort he cast aside the load 
of plate which impeded his movements. He 
tore off his diamond-laden coat ; he cast his 
waistcoat to the winds, aud plunged madly 
into the throng that blocked up the en- 
trance. 

To find himself too late. The great gates 
closed with a heavy shock, and Acon-Virlaz 
reeled away from them in the rebound, 
bruised, bleeding, and despairing. He was 
too late. Sky Fair was closed, and he 
was to be turned into stone for a hundred 
years. 

The red-headed doorkeeper (who by the 


18 


DICKENS’ NEW STOEIES. 


way squinted abominably) was leaning 
with his back to the gate, drumming with 
his keys on the bars. 

“ It’s a beautiful day to be indoors,” he 
said, consolingly. “ It’s bitter cold out- 
side.” 

Acon-Virlaz shuddered. He felt his heart 
turning into stone within him. He fell on 
his knees before the red-headed doorkeeper ; 
and with tears, sobs, groans, entreated him 
to open the gate. He offered him riches, he 
offered him the hand of Miriam his large- 
eyed daughter : all for one turn of the key 
in the lock of the gate of Sky Fair. 

“ Can^t be done,” the doorkeeper re- 
marked, shaking his head. “ Till Sky Fair 
opens again, you can’t be let out.” 

Again and again did the jeweller entreat, 
until he at last appeared to make an impres- 
sion on the red-headed janitor. 

“ Well, Fll tell you what I can do for 
you, old gentleman,” he said: “I daren’t 
open the gate for my life ; but there’s a win- 
dow in my lodge ; and if you choose to take 
your chance of jumping out of it (it isn’t far 
to fall) you can.” 

Acon-Virlaz, uttering a confused medley 
of thanks, was about to rush into the lodge, 
when the gatekeeper laid his hand upon his 
arm. 

“ By the way, mister,^’ he said, “ you 
. may as well give me that big signet ring on 
your finger, as a token to remind you of all 
the fine things you promised me when I 
come your way.” 

The jeweller hastily plucked off the de- 
sired trinket, and gave it to his red-headed 


deliverer. Then, he darted into the narrow, 
dark porter’s lodge, overturned a round 
table, on which was the doorkeeper’s dinner 
(it smelt very much like liver and bacon), 
and clambered up to a very tall, narrow 
window. He leaned his hands on the sill, 
and thrusting his head out to see how far 
he had to jump, descried, immediately be- 
neath him, the tasty shay, the discount 
pony, and Mr. Ben-Daoud with a lighted 
cigar in his mouth and the reins in his hand, 
just ready to start. “Hold hard !” screamed 
Acon-Virlaz. Hold hard ! Ben, my dear 
friend, my old friend : bold hard, and take 
me in !” 

Mr. Ben-Daoud’s reply was concise but 
conclusive : 

“ Go to Bermondsey,” he said, and whip- 
ped his pony. 

The miserable man groaned aloud in de- 
spair ; for the voice of the doorkeeper urged 
him to be quick about it, if he was going to 
jump ; and he felt, not only his heart, but 
his limbs, becoming cold and stony. Shut- 
ting his eyes and clenching his teeth, he 
jumped and fell, down, down into space. 
According to his own calculations, he must 
have fallen at least sixty thousand miles and 
for six months in succession ; but, according 
to Mrs. Acon-Virlaz and Miriam his large- 
eyed daughter, he only fell from his arm- 
chair into the fire-place, striking his head 
against the tongs as he fell ; having come 
home a little while before, with no such 
thing about him as his beautiful seal-ring ; 
and being slightly the worse for liquor, not 
to say drunk. 




THE THIEP POOK TRAVELLER. 


You wait my story, next 1 Ah, well ! 
Such marvels as you two have told 
You must not think that I can tell; 

For I am only twelve years old. 

Ere long I hope I shall have been 
On my first voyage, and wonders seen. 
Some princess I may help to free 
From pirates on a far-off sea ; 

Or, on some desert isle be left. 

Of friends and shipmates all bereft 

For the first time I venture forth. 
From our blue mountains of the north. 
My kinsman kept the lodge that stood 
Guarding the entrance near the wood. 
By the stone gateway gray and old. 
With quaint devices carved about. 

And broken shields ; while dragons bold 
Glared on the common world without ; 
And the long trembling ivy spray 


Half hid the centuries’ decay. 

In solitude and silence grand 
The castle towered above the land 
The castle of the Earl, whose name 
(Wrapped in old bloody legends) came 
Down through the times when Truth and Right 
Bent down to armed Pride and Might. 

He owned the country far and near; 

And, for some weeks in every year, 

(When the brown leaves were falling fast 
And the long, lingering autumn passed), 

He would come down to hunt the deer, 

With hound and horse in splendid pride. 

The story lasts the live-long year, 

The peasant’s winter evening fills 
When he is gone and they abide 
In the lone quiet of their hills. 

I longed, too, for the happy night. 

When all with torches flaring bright 


19 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


The crowding villagers would stand, 

A patient, eager, waiting band, 

Until the signal ran like flame 
“ They come !” and, slackening speed, they came. 
Outriders first, in pomp and state, 

Pranced on their horses thro’ the gate ; 

Then the four steeds as black as night. 

All decked with trappings blue and white. 

Drew thro’ the crowd that opened wide, 

The Earl and Countess side by side. 

The stern grave Earl, with formal smile 
And glistening eyes and stately pride. 

Could ne’er my childish gaze beguile 
From the fair presence by his side. 

The lady’s soft sad glance, her eyes 
(Like stars that shone in summer skies). 

Her pure white face so calmly bent. 

With gentle greetings round her sent ; 

Her look, that always seemed to gaze 
Where the blue past had closed again 
Over some happy shipwrecked days, 

With all their freight of love and pain. 

She did not even seem to see 
The little lord upon her knee. 

And yet he was like angel fair, 

With rosy cheeks and golden hair, 

That fell on shoulders white as snow. 

But the blue eyes that shone below 
His clustering rings of auburn curls. 

Were not his mother’s, but the Earl’s. 

I feared the Earl, so cold and grim, 

I never dared be seen by him. 

When thro’ our gate he used to ride. 

My kinsman Walter bade me hide ; 

He said he was so stern. 

So, when the hunt came past our way 
I always hasten’d to obey. 

Until I heard the bugles play 
The notes of their return. 

But she — my very heart-strings stir 
Whene’er I speak or think of her — 

The whole wide world could never see 
A noble lady such as she. 

So full of angel charity. 

Strange things of her our neighbors told 
In the long winter evenings cold. 

Around the fire. They would draw near 
And speak half-whispering, as in fear ; 

As if they thought the Earl could hear 
Their treason ’gainst his name. 

They thought the story that his pride 
Had stooped to wed a low-bom bride, 

A stain upon his fame. 

Some said ’twas false ; there could not be 
Such blot on his nobility : 

But others vowed that they had heard 
The actual story word for word. 

From one who well my lady knew. 

And had declared the story true. 

In a far village, little known. 

She dwelt — so ran the tale — alone. 

A widowed bride, yet, oh ! so bright, 

Shone through the mist of grief, her charms ; 
They said it was the loveliest sight, — 

She with her baby in her arms. ' 


The Earl, one summer morning, rode 
By the sea-shore where she abode ; 

Again he came, — the vision sweet 
Drew him reluctant to her feet. 

Fierce must the struggle in his heart 
Have been, between his love and pride. 
Until he chose that wondrous part 
To ask her to become his bride. 

Yet, ere his noble name she bore. 

He made her vow that nevermore 
She would behold her child again 
But hide his name and hers from men. 
The trembling promise duly spoken. 

All links of the low past were broken, 

And she arose to take her stand 
Amid the nobles of the land. 

Then all would wonder, — could it be 
That one so lowly born as she. 

Raised to such height of bliss, should seem 
Still living in some weary dream 1 
’Tis true she bore with calmest grace 
The honours of her lofty place. 

Yet never smiled, in peace or joy. 

Not even to greet her princely boy. 

She heard, with face of white despair. 

The cannon thunder through the air. 

That she had given the Earl an heir. 

Nay, even more (they whispered low, 

As if they scarce durst fancy so). 

That, through her lofty wedded life. 

No word, no tone, betrayed the wife. 

Her look seemed ever in the past : 

Never to him it grew more sweet ; 

The self-same weary glance she cast 
Upon the greyhound at her feet. 

As upon him, who bade her claim 
The crowning honor of his name. 

This gossip, if old Walter heard, 

He checked it with a scornful word : 

I never durst such tales repeat ; 

He was too serious and discreet 
To speak of what his lord might do. 
Besides, he loved my lady too : 

And many a time, I recollect, 

They were together in the wood ; 

He, with an air of grave respect ; 

And earnest look, uncovered stood. 

And though their speech I never heard. 
Save now and then a louder word,) 
saw he spake as none but one 
She loved and trusted durst have done ; 
For oft I watched them in the shade 
That the close forest branches made. 

Till slanting golden sunbeams came 
And smote the fir-trees into flame, 

A radiant glory round her lit. 

Then down her white robe seemed to flit, 
Gilding the brown leaves on the ground. 
And all the feathery ferns around. 

While by some gloomy pine she leant 
And he in earnest talk would stand, 

I saw the tear-drops, as she bent. 

Fall on the flowers in her hand. 

Strange as it seemed and seems to be 
That one so sad, so cold as she, 

Could love a little child like me ; 


20 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


Yet so it was, I never heard 
Such tender words as she would say, 

Or murmurs, sweeter than a word, 

Would breathe upon me as I lay. 

While I, in smiling joy, would rest. 

For hours, my head upon her breast. 

Our neighbors said that none could see 
In me the common childish charms, 

(So grave and still I used to be,) 

And yet she held me in her arms, 

In a fond clasp, so close, so tight, — 

I often dream of it at night. 

She bade me tell her all — no other, 

My childish thoughts e’er cared to know ; ' 
For I — I never knew my mother ; 

I was an orphan long ago. 

And I could all my fancies pour. 

That gentle loving face before. 

She liked to hear me tell her all ; 

How that day I had climbed the tree, 

To make the largest fir-cones fall ; 

And how one day I hoped to be 
A sailor on the deep blue sea — 

She loved to hear it all ! 

Then wondrous things she used to tell. 

Of the strange dreams that she had known. 

I used to love to hear them well ; 

If only for her sweet low tone. 

Sometimes so sad, although I knew 
That such things never could be true. 

One day she told me such a tale 
It made me grow all cold and pale. 

The fearful thing she told ! 

Of a poor woman mad and wild 
Who coined the life-blood of her child. 

Who tempted by a fiend, had sold 
The heart out of her breast for gold. 

But, when she saw me frightened seem, 

She smiled, and said it was a dream. 

How kind, how fair she was ; how good 
I cannot tell you. If I could 
You, too, would love her. The mere thought 
Of her great love for me has brought 
Tears in my eyes ; though far away, 

It seems as it were yesterday. 

And just as when I look on high 
Through the blue silence of the sky, 

Fresh stars shine out, and more and more, 
Where I could see so few before. 

So, the more steadily I gaze 
Upon those far-off misty days, 

Fresh words, fresh tones, fresh memories start 
Before my eyes and in my heart. 

I can remember how one day 
(Talking in silly childish way) 

I said how happy I should be 
If I were like her son — as fair. 

With just such bright blue eyes as he. 

And such long locks of golden hair. 

A dark smile on her pale face broke. 

And in strange solemn words she spoke : 

“ My own, my darling one — no, no ! 

I love you, far, far better so. 

I would not change the look 3 ^ou bear, 

Or one wave of your dark brown hair. 

The mere glance of your sunny eyes. 


Deep in my deepest soul I prize 
Above that baby fair ! 

Not one of all the Earl’s proud line 
In beauty ever matched with thine. 

And ’tis by thy dark locks thou art 
Bound even faster round my heart. 

And made more wholly mine !” 

And then she paused, and weeping said, 

“ You are like one who now is dead — 

Who sleeps in a far distant grave. 

0 may God grant that you may be 
As noble and as good as he. 

As gentle and as brave !” 

Then in my childish way I cried, 

« The one you tell me of who dieu. 

Was he as noble as the Earl 1” 

1 see her red lips scornful curl, 

I feel her hold my hand again 

So tightly that I shrank in pain— 

I seem to hear her say, 

“ He whom I tell you of, who died. 

He was so noble and so gay, 

So generous and so brave. 

That the proud Earl by his dear side , 

Would look a craven slave.” 

She paused ; then, with a quivering sigh. 

She laid her hand upon my brow : 

“ Live like him, darling, and so die. 

Remember that he tells you now, 

True peace, real honor, and content. 

In cheerful pious toil abide ; 

For gold and splendor are but sent 
To curse our vanity and pride.” 

One day some childish fever pain 
Burnt in my veins and fired my brain. 

Moaning, I turned from side to side ; 

And, sobbing in my bed, I cried. 

Till night in calm and darkness crept 
Around me, and at last I slept. 

When suddenly I woke to see 
The lady bending over me. 

The drops of cold November rain 
Were falling from her long, damp hair ; 

Her anxious eyes were dim with pain ; 

Yet she looked wondrous fair. 

Arrayed for some great feast she came. 

With stones that shone and burnt like flame. 
Wound round her neck, like some bright snake, 
And set like stars within her hair. 

They sparkled so, they seemed to make 
A glory everywhere. 

I felt her tears upon my face. 

Her kisses on my eyes ; 

And a strange thought I could not trace 
I felt within my heart arise ; 

And, half in feverish pain, I said ; 

“ O if my mother were not dead !” 

And Walter bade me sleep ; but she 
Said, “ Is it not the same to thee 
That I watch by thy bed 1” 

I answered her, “ I love you, too ; 

But it can never be the same ; 

She was no Countess like to you. 

Nor wore such sparkling stones of flame.” 

0 the wild look of fear and dread ! 

The cry she gave of bitter woe ! 

1 often wonder what I said 


21 


THE SETEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


To make her moan and shudder so. 
Through the long night she tended me 
With such sweet care and charity. 

But I should weary you to tell 
All that I know and love so well ; 

Yet one night more stands out alone 
With a sad sweetness all its own. 

The wind blew loud that dreary night. 

Its wailing voice I well remember ; 

The stars shone out so large and bright 
Upon the frosty fir-boughs white : 

That dreary night of cold December 
I saw old W alter silent stand, 

Watching the soft last flakes of snow 
With looks I could not understand 
Of strange perplexity and woe. 

At last he turned and took my hand 
And said the Countess just had sent 
To bid us come ; for she would fain 
See me once more, before she went 
Away, — never to come again. 

We came in silence thro’ the wood 
(Our footfall was the only sound). 

To where the great white castle stood. 
With darkness shadowing it around. 
Breathless, we trod with cautious care 
Up the great echoing marble stair ; 
Trembling, by Walter’s hand I held. 
Scared by the splendors I beheld ; 

Now thinking, Should the Earl appear ! 
Now looking up with giddy fear 
To the dim vaulted roof, that spread 
Its gloomy arches overhead. 

Long corridors we softly past,* 

(My heart was beating loud and fast) 

And reached the Lady’s room at last. 

A strange faint odor seemed to weigh 
Upon the dim and darkened air. 

One shaded lamp, with softened ray, 
Scarce showed the gloomy splendor there. 
The dull red brands were burning low : 
And yet a fitful gleam of light. 

Would now and then, with sudden glow. 
Start forth, then sink again in night. 

I gazed around, yet half in fear, 

Till Walter told me to draw near. 

And in the strange and flickering light, 
Towards the Lady’s bed I crept. 

All folded round with snowy white. 

She lay (one would have said she slept), 
So still the look of that white face. 

It seemed as it were carved in stone. 

I paused before I dared to place, 

Within her cold white hand my own. 
But, with a smile of sweet surprise. 

She turned to me her dreamy eyes ; 

And slowly, as if life were pain. 

She drew me in her arms to lie : 

She strove to speak, and strove in vain ; 


Each breath was like a long-drawn sigh. 
The throbs that seemed to shake her breaiti 
The trembling clasp, so loose, and weak, 

At last grew calmer, and at rest ; 

And then she strove once more to speak : 

“ My God, I thank thee, that my pain 
Of day by day and year by year. 

Has not been suffered all in vain. 

And I may die while he is near. 

I will not fear but that Thy grace 
Has swept away my sin and woe, 

And sent this little angel face. 

In my last hour to tell me so.” 

(And here her voice grew faint and low) 

“ My child where’er thy life may go. 

To know that thou art brave and true. 

Will pierce the highest heavens through. 
And even there my soul shall be 
More joyful for this thought of thee.” 

She folded her white hands, and stayed 
All cold and silently she lay ; 

I knelt beside the bed, and prayed 
The prayer she used to make me say. 

I said it many times, and then 
She did not move, but seemed to be 
In a deep sleep, nor stirred again. 

No sound stirred in the silent room. 

Or broke the dim and solemn gloom. 

Save when the brands that burnt so low 
With noisy fitful gleam of light. 

Would spread around a sudden glow, 

Then sink in silence and in night. 

How long I stood I do not know ; 

At last poor Walter came, and said 
(So sadly) that we now must go. 

And whispered she we loved was dead, 

He bade me kiss her face once more. 

Then led me sobbing to the door. 

I scarcely knew what dying meant. 

Yet a strange grief, before unknown. 
Weighed on my spirit as we went 
And left her lying all alone. 

We went to the far North once more. 

To seek the well remembered home. 
Where my poor kinsman dwelt before. 
Whence now he was too old to roam : 

And there six happy years we past. 

Happy and .peaceful till the last : 

When poor old Walter died, and he 
Blessed me and said I now might be 
A sailor on the deep blue sea. 

And so I go ; and yet in spite 
Of all the joys I long to know ; 

Though I look onward with delight. 

With something of regret I go. 

And young or old, on land or sea. 

One guiding memory I shall take 
Of what she prayed that I might be, 

And what I will be for her sake ! 


THE FOUKTH POOE TEAVELLEE. 


Now, first of all, I should like to know 
what you mean by a story ? You mean 
what other people do ? And pray what is 
that? You know, but you can’t exactly 
tell. I thought so ! In the course of a 
pretty long legal experience, I have never 
yet met with a party out of my late profes- 
sion, who was capable of giving a correct 
definition of anything. 

To judge by your looks, I suspect you are 
amused at my talking of any such thing 
ever having belonged to me as a profession. 
Ha ! ha ! Here I am, with my toes out of 
my boots, without a shirt to my back or a 
rap in my pocket, except the fourpence I 
get out of this charity (against the present 
administration of which I protest — but that’s 
not the point), and yet not two years ago I 
was an attorney in large practice in a burst- 
ing big country town. I had a house in the 
High Street. Such a giant of a house that 
you had to get up six steps to knock at the 
front door. I had a footman to drive tramps 
like me off all or any one of my six hearth- 
stoned steps, if they dared sit down on all 
or any one of my six hearth-stoned steps ; 
a footman who would give me into custody 
DOW if I tried to shake hands with him in 
the streets I decline to answer your ques- 
tions if you ask me any. How I got into 
trouble, and dropped down to where I am 
now, is my secret. 

Now, I absolutely decline to tell you a 
story. But, though I wont tell a story, I 
am ready to make a statement. A statement 
is a matter of fact ; therefore the exact op- 
posite of a story, which is a matter of fiction. 
What I am now going to tell you really 
happened to me. 

I served my time — never mind in whose 
office ; and I started in business for myself, 
in one of our English country towns — I 
decline stating which. I hadn’t a quarter 
of the capital I ought to have had to begin 
with ; and my friends in the neighborhood 
were poor and useless enough, with one 
exception. That exception was Mr. Frank 
Gatliffe, son of Mr. Gatliffe, member for the 
county, the richest man and the proudest 
for many a mile round about our parts. 
Stop a bit ! you man in the corner there ; 
you needn’t pert up and look knowing. You 
wont trace any particulars by the name of 
Gatliffe. I’m not bound to commit myself 
or anybody else by mentioning names. I 
have given you the first that came into my 
head. 

( 22 ) 


Well ! Mr. Frank was a staunch friend 
of mine, and ready to recommend me when- 
ever he got the chance. I had given him a 
little timely help — for a consideration, of 
course — in borrowing money at a fair rate 
of interest ; in fact, I had saved him from 
the Jews. The money was borrowed while 
Mr. Frank was at college. He came back 
from college, and stopped at home a little 
while ; and then there got spread about all 
our neighborhood, a report that he had fallen 
in love, as the saying is, with his young sis- 
ter’s governess, and that his mind was ipade 
up to marry her. What I you’re at it again, 
my man in the corner ! You want to know 
her name, don’t you I What do you think 
of Smith ? 

Speaking as a lawyer, I consider Keport, 
in a general way, to be a fool and a liar. 
But in this case report turned out to be 
something very different. Mr. Frank told 
me he was really in love, and said upon his 
honor (an absurd expression which young 
chaps of his age are always using) he was 
determined to marry Smith the governess — 
the sweet darling girl, as he called her ; but 
I’m not sentimental, and I call her Smith 
the governess (with an eye, of course, to 
refreshing the memory of my friend in the 
corner). Mr. Frank’s father, being as proud 
as Lucifer, said “ No” as to marrying the 
governess, when Mr. Frank wanted him to 
say “Yes.” He was a man of business, 
was old Gatliffe, and he took the proper 
business course. He sent the governess 
away with a first-rate character and a spank- 
ing present ; and then he looked about him 
to get something for Mr. Frank to do. While 
he was looking about, Mr. Frank bolted to 
London after the governess, who had nobody 
alive belonging to her to go to, but an aunt — 
her father’s sister. The aunt refuses to let 
Mr. Frank in without the squire’s permis- 
sion. Mr. Frank writes to his father, and 
says he will marry the girl as soon as he is 
of age, or shoot himself. Up to town comes 
the squire, and his wife, and his daughter ; 
and a lot of sentimentality, not in the 
slightest degree material to the present 
statement, takes place among them ; and 
the upshot of it is that old Gatliffe is forced 
into withdrawing the word No, and sub- 
stituting the word Yes. 

I don’t believe he would ever have done 
it, though, but for one lucky peculiarity in 
the case. The governess’s father was a man 
of good family— pretty nigh as good as Gat- 


23 


THE SEVEN POOR TRi^vjELLERS. 


liffe’s own. lie had been in the army ; had 
Bold out, set up as a wine merchant — failed 
— died : ditto his wife, as to the dying part 
of it. No relation, in fact, left for the squire 
to make inquiries about but the father’s sis- 
ter ; who had behaved, as old Gatliffe said, 
like a thorough-bred gentlewoman in shut- 
ting the door against Mr. Frank in the first 
instance. So, to cut the matter short, things 
were at last made up pleasant enough. The 
time was fixed for the wedding, and an an- 
nouncement about it — Marriage in High Life 
and all that — put into the county paper. 
There was a regular biography, besides, of 
the governess’s father, so as to stop people 
from talking ; a great flourish about his 
pedigree, and a long account of his services 
in the army ; but not a word, mind ye, of 
his having turned wine merchant afterwards. 
Oh, no — not a word about that ! I knew it, 
though, for Mr. Frank told me. He hadn’t 
a bit of pride about him. He introduced 
me to his future wife one day when I met 
them out walking, and asked me if I did 
not think he was a lucky fellow. I don’t 
mind admitting that I did, and that I told 
him so. Ah ! but she was one of my sort, 
was that governess. Stood, to the best of 
my recollection five foot four. Good lissome 
figure, that looked as if it had never been 
boxed up in a pair of stays. Eyes that made 
me feel as if I was under a pretty stiff cross- 
examination the moment she looked at me. 
Fine red, fresh, kiss-and-come-again sort of 

lips. Cheeks and complexion . No, my 

man in the corner, you wouldn’t identify 
her by her cheeks and complexion, if I 
drew you a picture of them this very mo- 
ment. She has had a family of children 
since the time I’m talking of; and her 
cheeks are a trifle fatter and her complexion 
is a shade or two redder now, than w^hen I 
first met her out walking with Mr. Frank. 

The marriage was to take place on a 
Wednesday. I decline mentioning the year 
or Ahe month. I had started as an attorney 
on ray own account — say six weeks, more 
or less, and was sitting alone in my office on 
the Monday morning before the wedding- 
day, trying to see my way clear before me 
and not succeeding particularly well, when 
Mr. Frank suddenly bursts in, as white asi 
any ghost that ever was painted, and says 
he’s got the most dreadful case for me to 
advise on, and not an hour to lose in acting 
on my advice. 

“ Is this in the way of business, Mr. 
Frank?” says I, stopping him just as he 
was beginning to get sentimental. “ Yes 
or no, Mr. Frank ?” rapping my new^ office 
paper-knife on the table to pull him up 
short all the sooner. 

“ My dear fellow”— he was always fami- 
liar with me — “ it’s in the way of business, 
certainly; but friendship ” 

I was obliged to pull him up short again 


and regularly examine him as if he had 
been in the witness-box, or he would have 
kept me talking to no purpose half the day. 

” Now, Mr. Frank,” said I, “ I can’t have 
any sentimentality mixed up with business 
matters. You please to stop talking and let 
me ask questions. Answer in the fewest 
words you can use. Nod when nodding 
will do instead of words.” 

I fixed him with my eye for about three 
seconds, as he sat groaning and wriggling 
in his chair. When I’d done fixing him, I 
gave another rap with my paper-knife on to 
the table to startle him up a bit. Then I 
went on. 

” From what you have been stating up to 
the present time,” says I, “ I gather that 
you are in a scrape which is likely to inter- 
fere seriously with your marriage on Wed- 
nesday ?” (He nodded, and I cut in again 
before he could say a word). “ The scrape 
affects the young lady you are about to 
marry, and goes back to the period of a cer- 
tain transaction in which her late father was 
engaged some years ago ?” (He nods, and I 
cut in once more.) “ There is a party who 
turned up after seeing the announcement of 
your marriage in the paper, who is cogni- 
sant of what he oughtn’t to know, and who 
is prepared to use his knowledge of the 
same, to the prejudice of the young lady and 
of your marriage, unless he receives a sum 
of money to quiet him? Very well. Now, 
first of all, Mr. Frank, State what you have 
been told by the young lady herself about 
the transaction of her late father. How 
did you first come to have any knowledge 
of it?” 

“ She was talking to me about her father 
one day, so tenderly and prettily, that she 
quite excited my interest about him,” be- 
gins Mr. Frank ; “ and I asked her, among 
other things, what had occasioned his death. 
She said she believed it was distress of 
mind in the first instance ; and added that 
this distress was connected with a shocking 
secret, which she and her mother had kept 
from everybody, but which she could not 
keep from me, because she was determined 
to begin her married life by having no se- 
crets from her husband.” Here Mr. Frank 
began to get sentimental again ; and I pull- ' 
ed him up short once more _with the paper- 
knife. 

“ She told me,” Mr. Frank went on, “ that 
the great mistake of her father’s life was 
his selling out of the army and taking to the 
wine trade. He had no talent for business ; 
things went wrong with him from the first. 
His clerk, it was strongly suspected, cheated 
him ” 

“ Stop a bit,” says I. “ What was that 
suspected clerk’s name?” 

“ Davager,” says he. 

“ Davager,” says I, making a note of it 
“ Go on, Mr. Frank.” 


24 DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


“ His aiffairs got more and more entan- 
gled/^ says Mr. Frank ; “ he was pressed 
for money in all directions ; bankruptcy, and 
consequent dishonor (as he considered it) 
stared him in the face. His mind was so 
affected by his troubles that both his wife 
and daughter, towards the last, considered 
him to be hardly responsible for his own 
acts. In this state of desperation and 

misery, he ” Here Mr. Frank began 

to hesitate. 

We have two ways in the law, of draw- 
ing evidence off nice and clear from an un- 
willing client or witness. We give him a 
fright or treat him to a joke. I treated Mr. 
Frank to a joke. 

“ Ah says I. “ I know what he did. 
He had a signature to write ; and, by the 
most natural mistake in the world, he wrote 
another gentleman's name instead of his 
own — eh ?" 

“ It was to a bill." says Mr. Frank, look- 
ing very crestfallen, instead of taking the 
joke. “His principal creditor wouldn't 
wait till he could raise the money, or the 
greater part of it. But he was resolved, if 
he sold off everything, to get the amount and 
repay " 

“ Of course !" says I. “ Drop that. * The 
forgery was discovered. When ?" 

“ Before even the first attempt was made to 
negotiate the bill. He had done the whole 
thing in the most absurdly and innocently 
wrong way. The person whose name he 
had used was a staunch friend of his, and a 
relation of his wife's : a good man as well as 
a rich one. He had influence with the chief 
creditor, and he used it nobly. He had a 
real affection for the unfortunate man's 
wife, and he proved it generously." 

“ Come to the point," says I. “ What did 
he do ? In a business way, what did he 
do ?" 

“He put the false bill into the fire, drew 
a bill of his own to replace it, and then — 
only then — told my dear girl and her 
mother all that had happened. Can you 
imagine anything nobler ?" asked Mr. 
Frank. 

“ Speaking in my professional capacity, I 
can't imagine anything greener I" says I. 
“ Where was the father ? Off, I suppose ?" 

“ 111 in bed," said Mr. Frank, coloring. 
“But, he mustered strength enough to 
write a contrite and grateful letter the same 
day, promising to prove himself worthy of 
the noble moderation and forgiveness ex- 
tended to him, by selling off everything he 
possessed to repay bis money debt. He did 
sell off everything, down to some old family 
ictures that were heirlooms; down to the 
ttle plate he had ; down to the very tables 
and chairs that furnished his drawing room. 
Every farthing of the debt was paid ; and 
he was left to begin the world again, with 
the kindest promises of help from the gener- 


ous man who had forgiven him. It was too 
late. His crime of one rash moment- 
atoned for though it had been — preyed upon 
his mind. He became possessed with the idea 
that he had lowered himself forever in the 
estimation of his wife and daughter, 
and " 

“ He died," I cut in. “ Yes, yes, we know 
that. Let's go back for a minute to the con- 
trite and grateful letter that he wrote. My 
experience in the law, Mr. Frank, has con- 
vinced me that if everybody burnt every- 
body else's letters, half the Courts of 
Justice in this country might shut up shop. 
Do you happen to know whether the letter 
we are now speaking of contained anything 
like an avowal or confession of the forgery ?" 

“ Of course it did," says he. “ Could the 
writer express his contrition properly with- 
out making some such confession ?" 

“ Quite easy, if he had been a lawyer,'* 
says I. “ But never mind that ; I'm going 
to make a guess, — a desperate guess, mind. 
Should I be altogether in error," says I, “if 
I thought that this letter had been stolen ; 
and that the fingers of Mr. Davager, of sus- 
picious commercial celebrity, might possibly 
be the fingers which took it ?" says I. 

“ That is exactly what I tried to make 
you understand," cried Mr. Frank. 

“ How did he communicate that interest- 
ing fact to you ?" 

“ He has not ventured into my presence. 
The scoundrel actually had the audacity — " 

“ Aha !" says I. “ The young lady her- 
self I Sharp practitioner, Mr. Davager." 

“ Early this morning, when she was walk- 
ing alone in the shrubbery," Mr. Frank goes 
on, “ he had the assurance to approach her, 
and to say that he had been watching his 
opportunity of getting a private interview for 
days past. He then showed her — actually 
showed her — her unfortunate father’s letter ; 
put into her hands another letter directed to 
me ; bowed, and walked off ; leaving her 
half dead with astonishment and terror !" 

“ It was much better for you that you 
were not there," says I. “ Have you got 
that other letter?" 

He handed it to me. It was so extremely 
humorous and short, that I remember every 
word of it at this distance of time. It began 
in this way ; 

“ To Francis Gatliffe, Esq., Jun. — Sir. — I 
have an extremely curious autograph letter 
to sell. The price is a Five hundred pound 
note. The young lady to whom you are to 
be married on Wednesday will inform you 
of the nature of the letter, and the genuine- 
ness of the autograph. If you refuse to deal, 
I shall send a copy to the local paper, and 
shall wait on your highly respected father 
with the original curiosity, on the afternoon 
of Tuesday next. Having come down here 
on family business, I have put up at the 


25 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


family hotel— being to be heard of at the 
Gatliffe Arms. 

Your very obedient servant, 

“Alfred Davager.*' 

“ A clever fellow, that,” says I, putting 
the letter into my private drawer. 

“ Clever I” cries Mr. Frank, “ he ought to 
be horsewhipped within an inch of his life. 
I would have done it myself, but she made 
me promise, before she told me a word of 
the matter, to come straight to you.” 

“ That was one of the wisest promises you 
ever made,” says I. “ We can’t afford to 
bully this fellow, whatever else we may do 
with him. Don’t think I am saying any- 
thing libellous against your excellent father’s 
character when I assert that if he saw the 
letter he would insist on your marriage being 
put off, at the very least ?” 

“ Feeling as my father does about my 
marriage, he would insist on its being drop- 
ped altogether, if he saw this letter,” says 
Mr. Frank, with a groan. “ But even that 
is not the worst of it. The generous, noble 
girl herself says, that if the letter appears 
in the paper, with all the unanswerable 
comments this scoundrel would be sure to 
add to it, she would rather die than hold 
me to my engagement — even if my father 
would let me keep it.” He was a weak 
young fellow, and ridiculously fond of her. 
I brought him back to business with another 
rap of the paper-knife. 

“ Hold up, Mr. Frank,” says I. “ I have 
a question or two more. Did you think of 
asking the young lady whether, to the best 
of her knowledge, this infernal letter was 
the only written evidence of the forgery now 
in existence ?” 

“ Yes, I did think directly of asking her 
that, says he; “and she told me she was 
quite certain that there was no written evi- 
dence of the forgery, except that one letter.” 

“ AVill you give Mr. Davager his price for 
it ?” says I. 

“ Yes,” says Mr. Frank, as quick as light- 
ning. 

“ Mr. Frank,” says I, “ you came here to 
get my help and advice in this extremely 
ticklish business, and you are ready, as I 
know, without asking, to remunerate me for 
all and any of my services at the usual pro- 
fessional rate. Now, I’ve made up my mind 
to act boldly — desperately, if you like — on 
the hit or miss — win-all-or-lose-all principle 
— in dealing with this matter. Here is my 
proposal. I’m going to try if I can’t do Mr. 
Davager out of his letter. If I don’t succeed 
before to-morrow afternoon, you hand him 
the money, and I charge you nothing for 
professional services. If I do succeed, I 
hand you the letter instead of Mr. Davager; 
and you give me the money, instead of giv- 
ing it to him. It’s a precious risk for me, 
but I’m ready to run it. You must pay your 


five hundred any way. What do you say to 
my plan ? Is it. Yes— Mr. Frank— or. No ?” 

“ Hang your questions !” cries Mr. Frank, 
jumping up ; “ you know it’s Yes, ten thou- 
sand times over. Only you earn the monev 
and ” 

“ And you will be too glad to give it to 
me. Very good. . Now go home. Comfort 
the young lady — don’t let Mr. Davager so 
much as set eyes on you — keep quiet — leave 
everything to me — and feel as certain as you 
please that all the letters in the world can’t 
stop your being married on Wednesday.’^ 
With these words I hustled him off out of 
the office ; for I wanted to be left alone to 
make my mind up about what I should do. 

The first thing, of course, was to have a 
look at the enemy. I wrote to Mr. Davager, 
telling him that I was privately appointed 
to arrange the little business-matter between 
himself and “ another party” (no names !) 
on friendly terms ; and begging him to call 
on me at his earliest convenience. At the 
very beginning of the case, Mr. Davager 
bothered me. His answer was that it would 
not be convenient to him to call till between 
six and seven in the evening. In this way, 
you see, he contrived to make me lose seve- 
ral precious hours, at a time when minutes 
almost were of importance. I had nothing 
for it, but to be patient, and to give certain 
instructions, before Mr. Davager came, to 
my boy Tom. 

There w’as never such a sharp boy of four- 
teen before, and there never will be again, 
as my boy, Tom. A spy to look after Mr. 
Davager was, of course, the first requisite in 
a case of this kind ; and Tom was the 
smallest, quickest, quietest, sharpest, stealth- 
iest little snake of a chap that ever dogged 
a gentleman’s steps and kept cleverly out of 
range of a gentleman’s eyes. I settled it 
with the boy that he was not to show at all, 
when Mr. Davager came ; and that he was 
to wait to hear me ring the bell when Mr. 
Davager left. If I rang twice he was to 
show the gentleman out. If I rang once, he 
was to keep out of the way and follow the 
gentleman wherever he went, till he got 
back to the inn. Those were the only pre- 
parations I could make to begin with ; being 
obliged to wait, and let myself be guided by 
what turned up. 

About a quarter to seven my gentleman 
came. In the profession of the law we get 
somehow quite remarkably mixed up with 
ugly people, blackguard people, and dirty 
people. But far away the ugliest and dirtiest 
blackguard I ever saw in my life was Mr. 
Alfred Davager. He had greasy white hair 
and a mottled face. He was low in the fore- 
head, fat in the stomach, hoarse in the 
voice, and weak in the legs. Both his eyes 
were bloodshot, and one was fixed in his 
head. He smelt of spirits, and carried a 
toothpick in his mouth. “ How are you ? 


26 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


I’ve just done dinner,” says he — and he 
lights a cigar, sits down with his legs 
crossed, and winks at me. 

I tried at first to take the measure of him 
in a wheedling, confidential way ; hut it was 
no good. I asked him in a facetious smiling 
manner, how he had got hold of the letter. 
He only told me in answer that he had been 
in the confidential employment of the writer 
of it, and that he had always been famous 
since infancy, for a sharp eye to his own in- 
terests. I paid him some compliments ; but 
he was not to be flattered. I tried to make 
him lose his temper ; but he kept it in spite 
of me. It ended in his driving me to my 
last resource — I made an attempt to frighten 
him. 

“ Before we say a word about the money,” 
I began, “ let me put a case, Mr. Davager. 
The pull you have on Mr. Francis Gatliffe 
is, that you can hinder his marriage on 
Wednesday. Now, suppose I have got a 
magistrate’s warrant to apprehend you in 
my pocket ? Suppose I have a constable to 
execute it in the next room? Suppose I 
bring you up to-morrow — the day before the 
marriage — charge you only generally with 
an attempt to extort money, and apply for 
a day’s remand to complete the case ? Sup- 
ose, as a suspicious stranger, you can’t get 
ail in this town ? Suppose ” 

“ Stop a bit,” says Mr. Davager ; •“ Sup- 
pose I should not be the greenest fool that 
ever stood in shoes ? Suppose I should not 
carry the letter about me? Suppose I 
should have given a certain envelope to a 
certain frend of mine in a certain place in 
this town? Suppose the letter should be 
inside that envelope, directed to old Gatliffe, 
side by side with a copy of the letter, direct- 
ed to the editor of the local paper ? Suppose 
my friend should be instructed to open the 
envelope, and take the letters to their right 
addresses, if I don’t appear to claim them 
from him this evening ? In short, my dear 
sir, suppose you were born yesterday, and 
suppose I wasn’t ?” — says Mr. Davager, and 
winks at me again. 

He didn’t take me by surprise, for I never 
expected that he had the letter about him. 
I made a pretence of being very much taken 
aback, and of being quite ready to give in. 
We settled our business about delivering the 
letter and handing over the money, in no 
time. I was to draw out a document, which 
he was to sign. He knew the document was 
stuff and nonsense just as well as I did ; and 
told me I was only proposing it to swell my 
client’s bill. Sharp as he was, he was wrong 
there. The document was not to be drawn 
out to gain money from Mr. Frank, but to 
gain time from Mr. Davager. It served me 
as an excuse to put off the payment of the 
five hundred pounds till three o’clock on the 
Tuesday afternoon. The Tuesday morning 
Mr. Davager said he should devote to his 


amusement, and asked me what sights were 
to be seen in the neighborhood of the town. 
When I had told him, he pitched his tooth- 
pick into my grate — yawned — and went out. 

I rang the bell once ; waited till he had 
passed the window ; and then looked after 
Tom. There was my jewel of a boy on the 
opposite side of the street, just setting hia 
top going in the most playful manner pos- 
sible. Mr. Davager walked away up the 
street, towards the market-place. Tom 
whipped his top up the street towards the 
market-place too. 

In a quarter of an hour he came back, 
with all his evidence collected in a beauti- 
fully clear and compact state. Mr. Davager 
had walked to a public house, just outside 
the town, in a lane leading to the high road. 
On a bench outside the public-house there 
sat a man smoking. He said “All right?” 
and gave a letter to Mr. Davager, who 
answered “All right,” and walked back to 
the inn. In the hall he ordered hot rum 
and water, cigars, slippers, and a fire to be 
lit in his room. After that, he went up 
stairs, and Tom came away. 

I now saw my road clear before me — not 
very far on, but still clear. I had housed 
the letter, in all probability for that night, 
at the Gatliffe Arms. After tipping Tom, I 
gave him directions to play about the door 
of the inn, and refresh himself, when he was 
tired, at the tart-shop opposite — eating as 
much as he pleased, on the understanding 
that he crammed all the time with his eye 
on the window. If Mr. Davager went out, 
or Mr. Davager’s friend called on him, Tom 
was to let me know. He was also to take a 
little note from me to the head chamber- 
maid — an old friend of mine — asking her to 
step over to my office, on a private matter 
of business, as soon as her work was done 
for that night. After settling these little 
matters, having half an hour to spare, I 
turned to and did myself a bloater at the 
office-fire, and had a drop of gin and water 
hot, and felt comparatively happy. 

When the head chambermaid came, it 
turned out, as good luck would have it, that 
Mr. Davager had offended her. ’ I no sooner 
mentioned him than she flew into a passion ; 
and when I added, by way of clinching the 
matter, that I was retained to defend the 
interests of a very beautiful and deserving 
young lady (name not referred to, of course) 
against the most cruel underhand treachery 
on the part of Mr. Davager, the head cham- 
bermaid was ready to go any lengths that 
she could safely, to serve my cause. In few 
words, I discovered that Boots was to call 
Mr. Davager, at eight the next morning, and 
was to take his clothes down stairs to brush 
as usual. If Mr. D., had not emptied his 
own pockets overnight, we arranged that 
Boots was to forget to empty them for him, 
and was to bring the clothes down stairs 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


just as ho found them. If Mr. D.'s pockets 
were emptied, then, of course, it would be 
necessary to transfer the searching process 
to Mr. D.'s room. Under any circumstances, 
1 was certain of the head chambermaid ; 
and under any circumstances also, the head 
chambermaid was certain of Boots. 

I waited till Tom came home, looking very 
puffy and bilious about the face ; but as to 
his intellects, if anything, rather sharper 
than ever. His report was uncommonly 
short and pleasant. The inn was shutting 
up ; Mr. Davager was going to bed in rather 
a drunken condition ; Mr. Davager's friend 
had never appeared. I sent Tom (properly 
instructed about keeping our man in view 
all the next morning) to his shake-down be- 
hind the office desk, where I heard him hic- 
cupping half the night, as boys will when 
over- excited and too full of tarts. 

At half-past seven next morning, I slipped 
miietly into BooUs pantry. Down came the 
clothes. No pockets in trousers. Waistcoat 
pockets empty. Coat pockets with some- 
thing in them. First, handkerchief ; second- 
ly, bunch of keys ; thirdly, cigar-case ; 
fourthly, pocket-book. Of course I wasnH 
such a fool as to expect to find a letter there ; 
but I opened the pocket-book with a certain 
curiosity, notwithstanding. 

Nothing in the two pockets of the book but 
some old advertisements cut out of news- 
papers, a lock of hair tied round with a dirty 
bit of ribbon, a circular letter about a loan 
society, and some copies of verses not likely 
to suit any company that was not of an ex- 
tremely wicked description. On the leaves of 
the pocket-book, people’s addresses scrawled 
in pencil, and bets jotted down in red ink. 
On one leaf, by itself, this queer inscription : 
“ Mem. 5 Along. 4 Across.” I under- 
stood everything but those words and figures; 
BO of course I copied them out into my own 
book. Then I waited in the pantry, till Boots 
had brushed the clothes and had taken them 
up stairs. His report, when he came down 
was, that Mr. D. had asked if it was a fine 
morning. Being told that it was, he had 
ordered breakfast at nine, and a saddle- 
horse to be at the door at ten, to take him to 
Grimwith Abbey— one of the sights in our 
neighborhood which I had told him of the 
evening before. 

“ I’ll be here, coming in by the back way 
at half-past ten,” says I to the head chamber- 
maid, “to take the responsibility of making 
Mr. Davager’s bed off your hands for this 
morning only. I want to hire Sam for the 
morning. Put it down in the order-book 
that he’s to be brought round to my office 
at ten.” 

Sam was a pony, and I’d made up my 
mind that it would be beneficial to Tom’s 
health, after the tarts, if he took a constitu- 
tional airing on a nice hard saddle in the 
direction of Grimwith Abbey. 


27 

‘‘Anything else,” says the head chamber- 
maid. 

“ Only one more favor,” says I. “ Would 
my boy Tom be very much in the way 
if he came, from now till ten, to help with 
the boots and shoes, and stood at his work 
close by this window which looks out on the 
staircase ?” 

“ Not a bit,” says the head chambermaid. 

“ Thank you,” says I ; and stepped back 
to my office directly. 

When I had sent Tom off to help with 
the boots and shoes, I reviewed the whole 
case exactly as it stood at that time. There 
were three things Mr. Davager might do 
with the letter. He might give it to his 
friend again before ten— in which case, Tom 
would most likely see the said friend, on the 
stairs. He might take it to his friend, or to 
some other friend, after ten — in which case, 
Tom was ready to follow him on Sam the 
pony. And, lastly, he might leave it hidden 
somewhere in his room at the inn — in which 
case, I was all ready for him with a 
search-warrant of my own granting, under 
favor always of my friend the head cham- 
bermaid. So far I had my business arrange- 
ments all gathered up nice and compact in 
my own hands. Only two things bothered 
me : the terrible shortness of the time at my 
disposal, in case I failed in my first experi- 
ments for getting hold of the letter, and that 
queer inscription which I had copied out of 
the pocket-book. 

“ Mem. 5 Along. 4 Across.” It vv^as the 
measurement, most likely, of something, and 
he was afraid of forgetting it ; therefore, it 
was something important. Query — some- 
thing about himself I Say “5” (inches) 
“ along” — he doesn’t wear a wig. Say “ 5” 
(feet) “along” — it can’t be coat, waistcoat, 
trowsers, or underclothing. Say “ 5” (yards) 
“along” — it can’t be anything about him- 
self, unless he wears round his body the rope 
that he’s sure to be hanged with one of these 
days. Then it is not something about him- 
self. What do I know of that is important 
to him besides ? I know of nothing but the 
letter. Can the memorandum be connected 
with that? Say, yes. What do “5 along” 
and “ 4 across” mean then ? The measure- 
ment of something he carries about with 
him ? — or the measurement of something 
in his room ? I could get pretty satisfiic- 
torily to myself as far as that ; but I could 
get no further. 

Tom came back to the office, and reported 
him mounted for his ride. His friend had 
never appeared. I sent the boy off, with his 
proper instructions, on Sam’s back — wrote 
an encouraging letter to Mr. Frank to keep 
him quiet — then slipped into the inn by the 
back way a little before half-past ten. The. 
head chambermaid gave me a signal when 
the landing was clear. I got into his room 
without a soul but her seeing me, and locked 


28 


DICKENS^ NEW STOEIES. 


the door immediately. The case was to a 
certain extent, simplified now. Either Mr. 
Pavager had ridden out with the letter about 
him, or he had left it in some safe hiding- 

E lace in his room. I suspected it to be in 
is room, for a reason that will a little 
astonish you — his trunk, his dressing-case, 
and all the drawers and cupboards were left 
open. I knew my customer, and I thought 
this extraordinary carelessness on his part 
rather suspicious. 

Mr. Davager had taken one of the best 
bedrooms at the Gatlifie Arms. Floor car- 
peted all over, walls beautifully papered, 
four-poster, and general furniture first-rate. 
I searched, to begin with, on the usual plan, 
examining everything in every possible 
way, and taking more than an hour about 
it. No discovery. Then I pulled out a 
carpenter’s rule which I had brought with 
me. Was there anything in the room 
which — either in inches, feet, or yards — an- 
swered to “ 5 along” and “ 4 across ?” 
Nothing. I put the rule back in my pocket 
— measurement was no good evidently. Was 
there anything in the room that would count 
up to 5 one way and 4 another, seeing that 
nothing would measure up to it ? I had got 
obstinately persuaded by this time that the 
letter must be in the room — principally be- 
cause of the trouble I had had in looking after 
it. And persuading myself of that, I took 
it into my head next, just as obstinately, 
that “ 5 along” and “ 4 across” must be the 
right clue to find the letter by — principally 
because I hadn’t left myself, after all my 
searching and thinking, even so much as 
the vestige of another guide to go by. “ 5 
along’’ — where could I count five along the 
room, in any part of it? 

Not on the paper. The pattern there was 
pillars of trellis work and flowers, enclos- 
ing a plain green ground — only four pillars 
along the w'all and only two across. The 
furniture ? There was not five chairs, or 
five separate pieces of any furniture in the 
room altogether. The fringes that hung 
from the cornice of the bed ? Plenty of 
them at any rate I Up I jumped on the 
counterpane, with my penknife in my hand. 
Every way that “ 5 along” and “ 4 across” 
could be reckoned on those unlucky fringes, 
I reckoned on them — probed with my pen- 
knife — scratched with my nails — crushed 
with my fingers. No use ; not a sign of a 
letter ; and the time was getting on — oh. 
Lord ! how the time did get on in Mr. 
Davager’s room that morning. 

I jumped down from the bed, so despe- 
rate at my ill-luck that I hardly cared 
whether anybody heard me or not. Quite 
a little cloud of dust arose at my feet as 
they thumped on the carpet. “ Hallo 1” 
thought I ; “ my friend the head chamber- 
maid takes it easy here. Nice state for 
a carpet to be in, in one of the best bed- 


rooms at the Gatlifie Arms.” Carpet I I 
had been jumping up on the bed, and 
staring up at the walls, but I had never so 
much as given a glance down at the carpet. 
Think of me pretending to be a lawyer, and 
not knowing how to look low enough ? 

The carpet ! It had been a stout article 
in its time ; had evidently begun in a draw- 
ing-room ; then descended to a cofiee-room ; 
then gone upstairs altogether to a bedroom. 
The ground was brown, and pattern was 
bunches of leaves and roses speckled over 
the ground at regular distances. I reckoned 
up the bunches. Ten along the room — eight 
across it. When I had stepped out five one 
way and four the other, and was down on my 
knees on the centre bunch, as true as I sit 
on this bench, I could hear my own heart 
beating so loud that it quite frightened me. 

I looked narrowly all over the bunch, and 
I felt all over it with the ends of my fingers ; 
and nothing came of that. Then I scraped it 
over slowly and -gently with my nails. My 
second finger-nail stuck a little at one place. 
I parted the pile of the carpet over that 
place, and saw a thin slit, which had been 
hidden by the pile being smoothed over it — 
a slit about half an inch long, with a little 
end of brown thread, exactly the colour of 
the carpet-ground, sticking out about a quar- 
ter of an inch from the middle of it. Just 
as I laid hold of the thread gently, I heard 
a footstep outside the door. 

It was only the head chambermaid, 
“ Havn’t you done yet ?” she whispers. 

“ Give me two minutes,” says I ; “ and 
don’t let anybody come near the door — 
whatever you do don’t let anybody startle 
me again by coming near the door.” 

I took a little pull at the thread, and heard 
something rustle. I took a longer pull, and 
out came a piece of paper, rolled up tight 
like those candle-lighters that the ladies 
make. I unrolled it — and, by George I gen- 
tlemen all, there was the letter ! 

The original letter ! — I knew it by the 
colour of the ink. The letter was worth 
five hundred pounds to me! It was all 
I could do to keep myself at first from 
throwing my hat into the air, and hooray ing 
like mad. I had to take a chair and sit 

uiet in it for a minute or two, before 

could cool myself down to my proper 
business level. I knew that I was safely 
down again when I found myself pondering 
how to let Mr. Davager know that he had 
been done by the innocent country attorney, 
after all. 

It was not long before a nice little irrita- 
ting plan occurred to me. I tore a blank 
leaf out of my pocket-book, wrote on it with 
my pencil “ Change for a five hundred 
pound note,” folded up the paper, tied the 
thread to it, poked it back into the hiding 
place, smoothed over the pile of the carpet, 
and — as everybody in this place guesses 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


before I can tell them—bolted off to Mr. 
Frank. He, in his turn, bolted off to show 
the leUer to the young lady, who first certi- 
fied to its genuineness, then dropped it into 
the fire, and then took the initiative for the 
first time since her marriage engagement, 
by flinging her arms round his neck, kissing 
him with all her might, and going into hys- 
terics in his arms. So at least Mr. Frank 
told me ; but that^s not evidence. It is evi- 
dence, however, that I saw them married 
with my own eyes on the Wednesday; 
and that while they went off in a carriage 
for to spend the honeymoon, I went off on 
my own legs to open a credit at the Town 
and County Bank with a five hundred pound 
note in my pocket. 

As to Mr. Davager, I can tell you nothing 
about him, except what is derived from 
hearsay evidence, which is always unsatis- 
factory evidence, even in a lawyer’s mouth. 

My boy Tom, although twice kicked off by 
Sam the pony, never lost hold of the bridle, 
and kept his man in sight from first to last. 
He had nothing particular to report, except 
that on the way out to the Abbey Mr. Dava- 
ger had stopped at the public-house, had 
spoken a word or two to his friend of the 


night before, and had handed him what 
looked like a bit of paper. This was no 
doubt a clue to the thread that held the let- 
ter, to be used in case of accidents. In every 
other respect Mr. D. had ridden out and rid- 
den in like an ordinary sight-seer. Tom 
reported him to me as having dismounted at 
the hotel about two. At half-past I locked 
my office door, nailed a card under the 
knocker with “ not at home till to-morrow’^ 
written on it, and retired to a friend’s house 
a mile or so out of the town for the rest of 
the day. 

^ Mr. Davager left the Gatliffe Arms that 
night with his best clothes on his back, and 
with all the valuable contents of his dressing- 
case in his pockets. I am not in a condition 
to state whether he ever went through the 
form of asking for his bill or not ; but I can 
positively testify that he never paid it, and 
that the effects left in his bedroom did not 
pay it either. When I add to these frag- 
ments of evidence, that he and I have never 
met (luckily for me), since I jockeyed him 
out of his bank note, I have about fulfilled 
my implied contract as maker of a statement, 
with the present company as hearers of a 
statement. 




THE FIFTH POOR TRAVELLER.- 


Do you know — the journeyman watch- 
maker from Geneva began — do you know 
those long straight lines of French country, 
over which I have often walked? Do you 
know those rivers, so long, so uniform in 
breadth, so dully gray in hue^ that in des- 
pair at their regularity, momentarily libel 
nature as being only a grand canal commis- 
sioner after all? Do you know the long 
funeral rows of poplars, or dreary parallelo- 
grams of osiers, that fringe those river 
banks ; the long white roads, hedgeless, 
but, oh ! so dismally ditchful ; the long low 
stone walls ; the long farmhouses, without a 
spark of the robust, leafy, cheerful life of 
the English homsteads ; the long fields, 
scarcely ever green, but of an ashen tone, 
wearily furrowed, as though the earth had 
grown old and was beginning to show the 
crow’s feet; the long interminable gray 
French landscape? The sky itself seems 
longer than it ought to be ; and the clouds 
stretch away to goodness knows where in 
long low banks, as if the heavens had been 
ruled with a parallel. If a vehicle passes 
you it is only a wofully long diligence — 
lengthened yellovr ugliness long drawn out, 
with a seemingly endless team of horses, 


and a long, stifling cloud of dust behind it ; 
a driver for the wheelers with a whip seven 
times as long as it ought to be ; and a pos- 
tillion for the leaders with boots long enough 
for seven-leaguers. His oaths are long ; the 
horses’ manes are long ; their tails are so 
long that they are obliged to have them tied 
up with straw. The stages are long, the 
journey long, the fares long — the whole 
longitudinal carriage leaves a long melan 
choly jingle of bells behind it. 

Yes ; French scenery is very lengthy ; so 
I settled in my mind at least as I walked 
with long strides along the white French 
road. A longer me — my shadow — walked 
before me, bending its back and drooping its 
arms, and angularising its elongated legs 
like drowsy compasses. The shadow looked 
tired : I felt so. I had been oppressed by 
length all day. I had passed a long proces- 
sion — some hundreds of boys in gray great 
coats and red trowsers: soldiers. I had 
found their guns and bayonets too long; 
their coats disproportionately lengthy ; the 
moustaches of their officers, ridiculously 
elongated. There was no end of them — 
their rolling drums, baggage waggons, and 
led horses. I had passed a team of buUocks 


30 


DICKENS’ NEW SaX)RIES. 


ploughing ; they looked as long as the lane 
that hath no turning. A long man followed 
them smoking a long pipe. A wretched pig 
I saw, too — a long, lean, bristly, lanky-leg- 
ged monstrosity, without even a curly tail, 
for his tail was long and pendant ; a mis- 
erable pig, half-snouted greyhound, half- 
abashed weazel, whole hog, and an eyesore 
to me. I was a long way from home. I 
had the spleen, I wanted something short — 
not to drink, but a short break in the long 
landscape, a house, a knoll, a clump of trees 
— anything to relieve this long purgatory. 

Whenever I feel inclined to take a more 
than ordinarily dismal view of things, I find 
it expedient to take a pipe of tobacco instead. 
As I wanted to rest, however, as well as 
smoke, I had to walk another long mile. 
When I descried a house, in front thereof 
was a huge felled tree, and on the tree I sat 
and lighted my pipe. The day was of no 
particular character whatever ; neither wet 
nor dry, cold nor hot — neither springy, sum- 
mery, autumnal, nor wintry. 

The house I was sitting opposite to, might 
have been one of public entertainment (for 
it was a cabaret) if there had been any 
public in the neighborhood to be entertained, 
which (myself excepted) I considered doubt- 
ful. It seemed to me as if Bacchus, roving 
about on the loose, had dropped a stray tub 
here on the solitary road, and no longer 
coming that way, the tub itself had gone 
to decay — had become unhooped, mouldy, 
leaky. I declare that, saving a certain fan- 
ciful resemblance to the barrel on which the 
god of wine is generally supposed to take 
horse exercise, the house had no more shape 
than a lump of cheese that one might dig 
hap-hazard from a soft double Gloucester. 
The windows were patches and the doorway 
had evidently been made subsequently to 
the erection of the building, and looked like 
an excrescence as it was. The top of the 
house had been pelted with mud, thatch, 
tiles, and slates, rather than roofed ; and a 
top room jutted out laterally from one of the 
walls, supported beneath by crazy uprights, 
like a poor relation clinging to a genteel 
kinsman nearly as poor. The walls had 
been plastered once, but the plaster had 
peeled off in places, and mud and wattles 
peeped through like a beggar^s bare knee 
through his torn trowsers. An anomalous 
wooden ruin, that might have been a barrel 
in the beginning, then a dog-kennel, then a 
dust-bin, then a hen-coop, seemed fast ap- 
proximating (eked out by some rotten pail- 
ings and half a deal box) to a pigstye : 
perhaps my enemy the long pig with the 
endant tail lived there when he was at 
ome. A lively old birch-broom, senile but 
twiggy, thriving under a kindly manure of 
broken bottles and woodashes, was the only 
apology for trees, hedges, or vegetation gen- 
erally, visible. If wood was deficient, how- 


ever, there was plenty of water. Behind 
the house, where it had been apparently 
raining for some years, a highly respectable 

uddle, as far as mud and stagnation went, 

ad formed, and on the surface of it drifted 
a solitary, purposeless, soleless old shoe, and 
one dismal duck, which no amount of green 
peas would have ever persuaded me to eat. 
There was a chimney to the house, but not 
in the proper place, of course ; it came out 
of one of the walls, close to the impromptu 
pigstye, in the shape of a rusty, battered iron 
funnel. There had never been anything to 
speak of done in the way of painting to 
the house ; only some erratic journeyman 
painter passing that way had tried his 
brushes, in red, green, and yellow smudges 
on the wall ; had commenced dead coloring 
one of the window sills ; and had then given 
it up as a bad job. Some pretentious an- 
nouncements relative to “ Good wines and 
liquors ” and “ II y a un billard,” there had 
been once above the door, but the rain had 
washed out some of the letters, and the 
smoke had obscured others, and the plaster 
had peeled ofi* from beneath more ; and 
some, perhaps, the writer had never finished ; 
so the inscriptions were a mere wandering 
piece of idiotcy now. If anything were 
wanted to complete the general wretched- 
ness of this house of dismal appearance, it 
would have been found in the presence of a 
ghostly set of ninepins that Hip Van Winkle 
might have played with. 

All these things were not calculated to 
inspire cheerfulness. I continued smoking, 
however, and thought that, by-and-by, I 
would enter the cabaret, and see if there 
were any live people there ; which appeared 
unlikely. 

All at once, there came out to me from 
the house a little man. It is not at all de- 
rogating from his manhood, to state that he 
was also a little boy, of perhaps eight years 
old ; but in look, in eye, in weird fur-cap, 
in pea-coat, blue, canvas trowsers, and sa- 
bots, he was at least thirty-seven years of 
age. He had a remarkable way, too, of 
stroking his chin with his hand. He looked 
at me long and fully, but without the slight- 
est rudeness, or intrusive curiosity ; then 
sitting by my side on the great felled tree, 
he smoked a mental pipe (so it appeard to 
me), while I smoked a material one. Once, 
I think, he softly felt the texture, of my 
coat ; but I did not turn my head, and pre- 
tended not to notice. 

We were getting on thus, very sociably 
together, without saying a word, when, 
having finished my pipe, I replaced it ki 
my pouch, and began to remove a little of 
the superfluous dust from my boots. My 
pulverous appearance was the cue for the 
little man to address himself to speech. 

“I see,^^ said he, gravely, “you are one 
of those Poor Travellers whom mamma tells 


31 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


US -VN^e are to take such care of. Attend, 
attend ; I will do your affair for you in a 
moment.^^ 

He trotted across to the cabaret, and 
after a lapse of two or three minutes, re- 
turned with a tremendous hunch of bread, 
a cube of cheese — which smelt, as the 
Americans say, rather loud, but was excel- 
lently well tasted — and an anomalous sort 
of vessel, that was neither a jug, a mug, a 
cup, a glass, nor a pint-pot, but partook of 
the characteristics of all — full of Macon wine. 

“ This is Friday,” added the little man, 
and meagre day, else should you be regaled 
with sausage — and of Lyons — of which we 
have as long as that.” Saying which, he 
extended his little arms to perhaps half a 
yard’s distance one from the other. 

I did not care to inform the little man 
that I was of a persuasion that did not for- 
»;id the eating of sausages on Fridays. I 
ale the bread and cheese, and drank the 
wine, all of which were very good and very 
palatable, very contentedly ; the little man 
sitting by, the while, nursing one of his 
short legs, and talking to himself softly. 

When I had finished, I lighted another 
pipe, and went in for conversation with the 
little man. We soon exhausted the ordi- 
nary topics of conversation, such as the 
weather, the distance from the last town, 
and the distance to the next. I found that 
the little man’s forte was interrogatory, and 
let him have his swing that way. 

“You come from a long way he asked. 

“ A long way,” I answered. “ From 
beyond the Sous-prefecture, beyond Nantes, 
beyond Brest and L’Orient.” 

“ But from a town always ? You come 
from a town where there are a great many 
people, and where they make wheels ?” 

I answered that I came from a large 
town, and that I had no doubt, though 
I had no personal experience in the matter, 
that wheels were made there. 

“ And cannot you make wheels?” 

I told him I was not a wheelwright; 
I only made the wheels of watches, which 
were not the wheels he meant. 

“Because,” the little man went on to 
say, softly, and more to himself than to 
me, “ mamma said he liked to live in 
towns, where there were many people, and 
M. le Cur6 said that wherever wheels were 
made, he could gain his bread.” 

I could not make much of this statement, 
so I puffed away at my pipe, and listened. 

“By the way,” my small but elderly 
companion remarked, “ would you have any 
objection to my bringing my sister to you ?” 

The more I saw of so original a family 
the better, I thought ; so I told him I should 
»e delighted to see his sister. 

He crossed over to the cabaret again, and 
; almost immediately afterwards returned, 
j leading a little maid. 


She seemed about a year younger, or 
a year older than her brother. I could not 
tell which. It did not matter which. She 
was very fair, and her auburn locks were 
confined beneath a little prim blue cap. 
Mittens, a striped woollen shirt, a smart 
white chemisette, blue hose, and trim little 
sabots, — all these had the little maid. She 
had a little chain and golden cross ; a pair 
of scissors hanging by a string to her girdle, 
a black tabinet apron, and a little silver 
ring on the forefinger of her left hand. Her 
eyes were very blue, but they could not see 
my dusty boots, my pipe, and three days’ 
beard. They could not see the great felled 
tree, her brother, in his pea-coat, the sky, 
the sun going down beyond the long straight 
banks of trees. They had never seen any 
of these things. The little maid was blind. 

She had known all about me, however, as 
far as the boots, the pipe, the dust, the 
bread and cheese, my having come a long 
way, and not being a wheelwright, went, 
long since. At least, she seemed quite au 
fait on general topics connected with my 
social standing, or rather sitting, on the 
tree ; and taking a seat on one side of me, 
her brother, the little man, on the other, the 
two little children began to chatter most 
delightfully. 

Mamma worked in the fields — in her own 
fields. She had three fields ; fields large as 
that (distance measured by little maid’s 
arms, after the manner of her brother, in 
reference to the sausage question). Papa 
made wheels. They loved him very much, 
but he beat mamma, and drank wine by 
cannons. When he was between two wines 
(that is, drunk), he knocked Lili’s head 
against the wall (Lili was the little man). 
When M. le Cur6 tried to bring him to a 
sense of the moral, he laughed at his nose. 
He was a farcer, was papa. He made 
beautiful wheels, and earned money like 
that (arm measurement again), except when 
he went weddingising (nocer), when he 
always came back between two wines, and 
between the two fell to the ground. Papa 
went away a long time, a very long time 
ago ; before the white calf at the farm was 
born. Before Andr6 drew the bad number 
in the conscription, and went away to 
Africa. Before Lili had his grand malady 
(little man looked a hundred years old, with 
the conscious experience of a grand malady. 
What was it? Elephantiasis, spasmodic 
neuralgia? Something wonderful, with a 
long name, I am sure). Papa sold the 
brown horse, and the great bed in oak, be- 
fore he went away. He also bris4d mam- 
ma’s head with a bottle, previous to his de- 
parture. He was coming back some day. 
He was sure to come back. M. le Cur 6 said 
no, and that he was a worth-nothing, but 
mamma said, Yes, and cried ; though, for 
my part,” concluded the little maid, when 


32 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


between herself and brother she had told 
me all this, “ I think that poor papa never 
will come back, but he has gone away among 
those Bedouin Turks, w^ho are so mfechants, 
and that they have eaten him up.” 

The little blind fairy made this statement 
with an air of such positive, yet mild con- 
viction, crossing her mites of hands in her 
lap as she did so, that for the moment I 
would have no more attempted to question 
the prevalence of cannibalism in Constan- 
tinople than to deny the existence of the 
setting sun. 

While these odd little people were thus 
entertaining me. Heaven knows where my 
thoughts were wandering. This strange 
life they led. The mother away at work, 
the drunken wheelwright father a fugitive 
(he must have been an awful ruffian), and, 
strangest of all strange phases, that these 
two little ones should be left to keep a 
public house I I thought of all these 
things, and then my thoughts came back 
to, and centred themselves in, the weird 
little figure of the blind girl beside me. It 
was but a poor little blind girl, in a blue 
petticoat and sabots ; yet so exquisitely re- 
gular were the features, so golden the hair, 
so firm, and smooth, and white — not marble, 
not wax, not ivory, yet partaking of all 
three, the complexion, so symmetrical every 
line, and so gloriously harmonious the 
whole combination of lines, that the little 
maid might have been taken then and there 
as she sat, popped in a frame, with “ Rafia- 
eUe pinxit,” in the corner, and purchased 
on the nail for five thousand guineas. 

I could not help noticing from time to 
time, during our conversation, that the little 
man in the pea-coat turned aside to whisper 
somewhat mysteriously to his sister, and 
then looked at me more mysteriously still. 
He appeared to have something on his mind, 
and after a nod of apparent acquiescence 
■ on the part of the little blind girl, it soon 
came out what the something was. 

“ My sister and I,” said this small person, 
“ hope that you will not be ofiended with 
us ; but would you have any objection to 
show us your tongue ?” 

This was, emphatically, a startler. Could 
the little man be a physician, as well as a 
publican ? I did as he asked me, though I 
am afraid I looked very foolish, and shut 
my eyes as I thrust forth the member he 
desired to inspect. He appeared highly 
gratified with the sight of my tongue, com- 
municating the results of his observation 
thereof to his sister, who clapped her hands, 
and seemed much pleased. Then he con- 
descended to explain. 

“ You see,” said he, “ that you told us 
you came from a distant country ; that is 
well seen, for though you speak French like 
a little sheep, you do not speak it with the 
same tongue that we do.” 


My experience of the court-martial scene 
in Black-eyed Susan, had taught me that it 
was possible to play the fiddle like an angel ; 
but this was the first time I had ever heard 
of a grown man talking like a little sheep. 
I took it as a compliment, however (whether 
I was right or wrong in doing so is ques- 
tionable), and waited to hear more. 

“ And my sister says that the reason why 
all strangers from far countries cannot speak 
as we do, is because they have a dark line 
right down their tongues. Now you must 
have a line down your tongue, though I am 
not tall enough to see it I” 

The creed of this valiant little fellow in 
respect to lines and tongues had evidently 
been built long since, upon a rock of ages 
of loving faith in what his sister had told 
him. Besides, how do I know ? I never saw 
my tongue except in a looking-glass, and 
that may have been false. My tongue may 
have five hundred lines crossing it at every 
imaginable angle, for aught I know. 

So, we three, oddly assorted trio, went 
chattering on, till the shadows warned me 
that twilight was fast approaching, and that 
I had two miles to walk to the town where 
I had appointed to sleep. Remembering 
then, that the little man had “ done my 
affair for me,” in an early stage of our in- 
tei’view in the way of bread and cheese and 
wine, and not choosing to be really the poor 
traveller I seemed, I drew out a five-franc 
piece and proffered payment. 

Both the children refused the coin ; and 
the little maid said gravely, Mamma said 
that we were always to take care of poor 
travellers. What we have given you is pour 
I’amour de Dieu, — for God’s sake. 

I tried to force some trifle on them as a 
gift, but they would have none of my coin. 
Seeing then that I looked somewhat disap- 
pointed, the little man, like a profound 
diplomatist as he was, smoothed away the 
difficulty in a moment. 

“ If you like to go as far as you can see to 
the right, towards the town,” he said, “ you 
will find a blind old woman, playing upon a 
flageolet, and sitting at a cakestall by the 
way-side. And if you like to buy us some 
gingerbread : — for three sous she will give 
you — oh I like that 1” For the last time in 
this history he extended his arms in sign of 
measurement. 

I went as far as I could see, which was 
not far, and found the blind old woman 
playing on a flageolet, and not seeing at all. 
Of her did I purchase gingerbread with 
brave white almonds in it: following my 
own notions of measurement, I may hint, in 
respect to the number of sous worth. 

Bringing it back to the children, I took 
them up, and kissed them and bade them 
good-bye. Then I left them to the ginger- 
bread and the desolate cabaret, until mam- 
ma should return from the fields, and that 


33 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


f^ous^ domestic institution, the soupe,” 
of which frequent mention had already- 
been made during our intercourse, should 
be ready. 

I have never seen them since ; I shall 


never see them again ; but, if it ever be my 
lot to be no longer solitary, I pray that I 
may have a boy and girl, as wise and good, 
and innocent as I am sure those little chil- 
dren were. 


A. 


THE SIXTH POOR TRAVELLER 


_ Was the little widow. She had been sit- 
ting by herself in the darkest corner of the 
room all this time; her pale face often 
turned anxiously toward the door, and her 
hollow eyes watching restlessly, as if she 
expected some one to appear. She was very 
quiet, very grateful for any little kindness, 
very meek in the midst of her wildness. 
There was a strained expression in her eyes, 
and a certain excited air about her altogether, 
that was very near insanity ; it seemed as if 
she had once been terrified by some sudden 
shock, to the verge of madness. 

When her turn came to speak, she began 
in a low voice — her eyes still glancing to the 
door — and spoke as if to herself rather than 
to the rest of us; speaking low but ra- 
pidly — somewhat like a somnambule re- 
peating a lesson. 

They advised me not to marry him (she 
began). They told me he was wild — un- 
principled — bad; but I did not care for 
what they said. I loved him and I disbe- 
lieved them. I never thought about his 
goodness — I only knew that he was beautiful 
and gifted beyond all that I had ever met 
with in our narrow society. I loved him, 
with no passing school-girl fancy, but with 
my whole heart — my whole soul. I had no 
life, no joy, no hope without him, and hea- 
ven would have been no heaven to me if he 
had not been there. I say all this, simply 
to show what a madness of devotion mine 
was. 

My dear mother was very kind to me 
throughout. She had loved my father, I 
believe, almost to the same extent ; so that 
she could sympathise with me even while 
discouraging. She told me that I was wrong 
and foolish, and that I should repent ; but I 
kissed away the painful lines between her 
eyes, and made her smile when I tried to 
rove to her that love was better than pru- 
ence. So we married: not so much with- 
out the consent as against the wish of my 
family; and even that wish withheld in 
sorrow and in love. I remember all this 
now, and see the true proportions of every- 
thing ; then, I was blinded by my passions, 
and understood nothing. 

We went away to our pretty, bright home ' 

3 


in one of the neighborhoods of London, 
near a park. We lived there for many 
months — I in a state of intoxication rather 
than of earthly happiness, and he was 
happy, too, then, for I am sure he was in- 
nocent, and I know he loved me. Oh, 
dreams — dreams 1 

I did not know my husband^s profession. 
He was always busy and often absent ; but 
he never told me what he did. There had 
been no settlements either, when I married. 
He said he had a conscientious scruple 
against them ; that they were insulting to a 
man^s honor and degrading to any husband. 
This was one of- the reasons why, at home, 
they did not wish me to marry him. But I 
was only glad to be able, to show him how I 
trusted him, by meeting his wishes and re- 
fusing, on my own account, to accept the 
legal protection of settlements. It was such 
a pride to me to sacrifice all to him. Thus 
I knew nothing of his real life — his pursuits 
or his fortunes. I never asked him any ques- 
tions, as much from indifference to every- 
thing but his love as from a wifely blind- 
ness of trust. When he came home at night, 
sometimes very gay, singing opera songs 
and calling me his little Medora, as he used 
when in a good humor, I was gay too, and 
grateful. And when he came home moody 
and irritable — which he used to do, often, 
after we had been married about three 
months, once even threatening to strike me, 

I with that fearful glare in his eyes I remem- 
ber so well, and used to see so often after- 
wards — then I was patient and silent, and 
never attempted even to take his hand or 
kiss his forehead when he bade me be still 
and not interrupt him. He was my law, and 
! his approbation the sunshine of my life ; so 
that my very obedience was selfishness : for 
my only joy was to see him happy, and my 
only duty to obey him. 

My sister came to visit us. My husband 
had seen very little of her before our mar- 
riage ; for she had often been from homo 
when he was with us, down at Hurst Farm 
— that was the name of my dear mother^s 
place — and I had always fancied they had 
not liked even the little they had seen of 
each other. Ellen was never loud or impor- 


S4 DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


tunate in her opposition. I knew that she 
did not like the marriage, hut she did not 
interfere. I remember quite well the only 
time she spoke openly to me on the subject, 
how she flung herself at my knees, with a 
passion very rare in her, beseeching me to 
pause and reflect, as if I had sold myself to 
my ruin when I promised to be Harry’s 
wife. How she prayed ! Poor Ellen ! I can 
see her now, with her heavy, uncurled hair 
falling on her neck as she knelt half un- 
dressed, her large eyes full of agony and 
supplication, like a martyred saint praying. 
Poor Ellen ! I thought her prejudiced then ; 
and this unspoken injustice has lain like a 
heavy crime on my heart ever since ; for I 
know that I judged her wrongfully, and that 
I was ungrateful for her love. 

She came to see us. This was about a 
year and a half after I married. She was 
more beautiful than ever, but somewhat 
sterner, as well as sadder. She was tall, 
strong in person, and dignified in manner. 
There was a certain manly character in her 
beauty, as well as in her mind, that made 
one respect and fear her too a little. I do 
not mean that she was masculine, or hard, 
or coarse : she was a true woman in grace 
and gentleness ; but she was braver than 
women in general. She had more self-reli- 
ance, was more resolute and steadfast, and 
infinitely less impulsive, and was more active 
and powerful in body. 

My husband was very kind to her. He 
aid her great attention ; and sometimes I 
alf perceived that he liked her almost bet- 
ter than he liked me — he used to look at her 
so often ; but with such a strange expression 
in his eyes I I never could quite make it 
out, whether it was love or hate. Certainly, 
after she came his manner changed towards 
me. I was not jealous. I did not suspect 
this change from any small feeling of 
wounded self-love, or from any envy of my 
sister ; but I saw it — I felt it in my heart — 
yet without connecting it with Ellen in any 
way. I knew that he no longer loved me as 
be used to do, but I did not think he loved 
her ; at least not with the same kind of love. 
I used to be surprised at Ellen^s conduct to 
him. She was more than cold; she was 
passionately rude and unkind ; not so much 
when I was there as when I was away. For 
I used tu ^lear her voice speaking in those 
deep indignant tones that are worse to bear 
than the hardest scream of passion ; and 
sometimes J used to hear hard words — he 
speaking at the first soft and pleadingly, 
often to end in a terrible burst of anger and 
imprecation. I could not understand why 
they quarrelled. There was a mystery be- 
tween them I did not know of ; and I did 
not like to ask them, for I was afraid of 
them both — as much afraid of Ellen as my 
husband — and I felt like a reed between 
them — as if I should have been crushed be- 


neath any storm I might chance to wake up. 
So, I was silent — suflbring alone, and bear- 
ing a cheerful face so far as I could.^ 

Ellen wanted me to return home with her. 
Soon after she came, and soon after I heard 
the first dispute between them, she urged 
me to go back to Hurst Farm ; at once, and 
for a long time. Weak as I am by nature, 
it has always been a marvel to me since, 
how strong I was where my love for my 
husband was concerned. It seemed impos- 
sible for me to yield to any pressure against 
him. I believe now that a very angel could 
not have turned me from him I 

At last she said to me in a low voice : 
“ Mary, this is madness ! — it is almost sin- 
ful I Can you not see — can you not hear V* 
And then she stopped, and would say no 
more, though I urged her to tell me what 
she meant. For this terrible mystery begun 
to weigh on me painfully, and, for all that I 
trembled so much to fathom it, I had begun 
to feel that any truth would be better than 
such a life of dread. 1 seemed to be living 
among shadows; my very husband and sis- 
ter not real, for their real lives were hidden 
from me. But I was too timid to insist on 
an explanation, and so things went on in 
their old way. 

In one respect only, changing still more 
painfully, still more markedly ; in my hus- 
band’s conduct to me. He was like another 
creature altogether to me now, he was so 
altered. He seldom spoke to me at all, and 
he never spoke kindly. All that I did an- 
noyed him, all that I said irritated him ; and 
once (the little widow covered her face with 
her hands and shuddered) he spurned me 
with his foot and cursed me, one night 
in our own room, when I knelt weeping be- 
fore him, supplicating him for pity’s sake to 
tell me how I had offended him. But I said 
to myself that he was tired, annoyed, and 
that it was irritating to see a loving wo- 
man's tears ; and so I excused him, as often- 
times before, and went on loving him all the 
same — God forgive me for my idolatry ! 

Things had been very bad of late be- 
tween Ellen and my husband. But the 
character of their discord was changed. In- 
stead of reproaching, they watched each 
other incessantly. They put me in mind of 
fencers — my husband on the defensive. 

“ Mary,” said my sister to me suddenly, 
coming to the sofa where I was sitting em- 
broidering my poor baby’s cap. “ What 
does your Harry do in life ? What is his 
profession ?” 

She fixed her eyes on me earnestly. 

“ I do not know, darling,” I answered, 
vaguely. “He has no profession that I 
know of.” 

“ But what fortune has he, then ? Did he 
not tell you what his income was, and how 
obtained, when he married ? To us, he said 
only that he had so much a year — a thou 


35 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


sand a year ; and he would say no more. 
Rut, has he not been more explicit with 
you 

“ No,^^ I answered, considering ; for, in- 
deed, I had never thought of this. I had 
trusted so blindly to him in everything that 
it would have seemed to me a profound in- 
sult to have even asked of his affairs. “ No, 
he never told me anything about his for- 
tune, Ellen. ^ He gives me money when I 
want it, and is always generous. He seems 
to have plenty ; whenever it is asked for, he 
has it by him, and gives me even more than 
I require.^^ 

Still her eyes kept looking at me in that 
strange manner. “And this is all you 
know V’ 

“ Yes — all. What more should I wish to 
know ? Is he not the husband, and has he 
not absolute right over everything ! I have no 
business to interfere.'^ The words sound 
harsher now than they did then, for I spoke 
lovingly. 

Ellen touched the little cap I held. “ Does 
not this make you anxious V’ she said. “ Can 
you not fear as a mother, even while you 
love as a wife 

“Fear darling I Why? What should I 
fear, or whom? What is there, Ellen, on 
your heart ?^^ I then added passionately. 
“ Tell me at once ; for I know that you have 
some terrible secret concealed from me ; and 
I would rather know anything — whatever it 
may be — than live on, longer, in this kind 
of suspense and anguish ! It is too much for 
me to bear, Ellen.^^ 

She took my hands. “ Have you strength ?^^ 
she said, earnestly. “ Could you really bear 
the truth Then seeing my distress, for I 
had fallen into a kind of hysterical fit — I 
was very delicate then — she shook her head 
in despair, and letting my hands fall heavily 
on my lap, said in undertone, “ No, no I she 
is too weak — too childish 1^^ Then she 
went up stairs abruptly ; and I heard her 
walking about her own room for nearly an 
hour after, in long steady steps. 

I have often thought that, had she told 
me then, and taken me to her heart — her 
strong, brave, noble heart — I could have de- 
rived courage from it, and could have borne 
the dreadful truth I was forced to know 
afterwards. But the strong are so impatient 
with us 1 They leave us too soon — their 
own strength revolts at our weakness ; so we 
are often left, broken in this weakness, for 
want of a little patience and sympathy. 

Harry came in, a short time after Ellen 
had left me. “ What has she been saying 
he cried, passionately. His eyes were wild 
and bloodshot ; his beautiful black hair flung 
all in disorder about his face. 

“ Dear Harry, she has said nothing about 
you” I answered, trembling. “ She only 
asked what was your profession, and how 
much we had a year. That was all.” 


“ Why did she ask this ? What business 
was it of hers?” cried Harry, fiercely. “ Tell 
me ;” and he shook me roughly ; “ what did 
you answer her, little fool ?” 

“ Oh, nothing ;” and I began to cry : it 
was because he frightened me. “ I said, 
what is true, that I knew nothing of your 
affairs, as indeed what concern is that of 
mine ? I could say nothing more, Harry.” 

“ Better that than too much,” he mut- 
tered ; and then he flung me harshly back 
on the sofa, saying, “ Tears and folly and 
weakness! The same round — always the 
same I Why did I marry a mere pretty doll 
— a plaything — no wife 1” 

And then he seemed to think he had said 
too much ; for he came to me and kissed me, 
and said that he loved me. But, for the first 
time in our married life his kisses did not 
soothe me, nor did I believe his assurances. 

All that night I heard Ellen walk steadily 
and unresting through her room. She never 
slackened her pace, she never stopped, she 
never hurried ; but, the same slow measured 
tread went on ; the firm foot, yet light, fall- 
ing as if to music, her very step the same 
mixture of manliness and womanhood as her 
character. 

After this burst of passion Harry’s tender- 
ness to me became unbounded ; as if he 
wished to make up to me for some wrong. 
I need not say how soon I forgave him, nor 
how much I loved him again. All my love 
came back in one full boundless tide ; and 
the current of my being set towards him 
again as before. If he had asked me for my 
life then, as his mere fancy, to destroy, I 
would have given it to him. I would have 
lain down and died, if he had wished to see 
the flowers grow over my grave. 

My husband and Ellen grew more es- 
tranged as his affection seemed to return to 
me. His manner to her was defying ; hers 
to him contemptuous. I heard her call 
him villain once, in the garden below the 
windows ; at which he laughed — his wicked 
laugh, and said “ tell her, and see if she will 
believe you 1” 

I was sitting in the window, working. It 
was a cold damp day in the late autumn, 
when those chill fogs of November are just 
beginning ; those fogs with the frost in 
jthem, that steal into one’s very heart. It was 
a day when a visible blight is in the air, 
when death is abroad everywhere, and 
suffering and crime. I was alone in the 
drawing-room. Ellen was up stairs, and my 
husband, as I believed, in the City. But I 
have remembered since, that I heard the 
hall-door softly opened, and a footstep steal 
quietly by the drawing room up the stairs. 
The evening was just beginning to close in — • 
dull, gray, and ghostlike; the dying daylight 
melting into the long shadows that stal&d 
like wandering ghoSts about the fresh made 
grave of nature. I sat working still, at some 


36 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


of those small garments about which I 
dreamed such fond dreams, and wove such 
large ho^es of happiness ; and as I sat, while 
the evening fell heavy about me, a myste- 
rious shadow of evil passed over me, a dread 
presentiment, a consciousness of ill, that 
made me tremble, as if in ague — angry at 
myself though for 'my folly. But, it was 
reality. It was no hystetrical sinking of the 
spirits that I felt ; no mere nervousness or 
cowardice ; it was something I had never 
known before; a knowledge, a presence, 
a power, a warning word, a spirit^s cry, that 
had swept by me as the fearful evil marched 
on to its conclusion. 

I heard a faint scream up stairs. It was 
so faint I could scarcely distinguish it from 
a sudden rush of wind through an opening 
door, or the chirp of a mouse behind the 
wainscot. Presently, I heard the same 
sound again ; and then a dull muffled noise 
overhead, as of some one walking heavily, 
or dragging a heavy weight across the floor. 
I sat petrified by fear. A nameless agony 
was upon me that deprived me of all power 
of action. I thought of Harry and I thought 
of Ellen, in an inextricable cypher of misery 
and agony ; but I could not have defined a 
line in my own mind ; I could not have ex- 
plained what it was I feared. I only knew 
that it was sorrow that was to come and sin. 
I listened, but all was still again ; once only, 
I thought I heard a low moan, and once a 
muttering voice — which I know now to have 
been my husband’s, speaking passionately 
to himself. 

And then his voice swept stormfully 
through the house, crying wildly, “ Mary, 
Mary ! Quick here ! Your sister ! Ellen !” 

I ran up stairs. It seems to me now, 
that I almost flew. I found Ellen lying on 
the floor of her own room, just inside the 
door ; her feet towards the door of my hus- 
band’s study, which was immediately op- 
osite her room. She was fliinting ; at least 
thought so then. We raised her up between 
us ; my husband trembling more than I ; 
and I unfastened her gown, and threw 
water on her face, and pushed back her 
hair, but she did not revive. I told Harry to 
go for a doctor. A horrid thought was steal- 
ing over me ; but he lingered, as I fancied, 
unaccountably and cruelly, though I twice 
asked him to go. Then, I thought that per- 
haps he was too much overcome ; so I went 
to him, and kissed him, and said, “ She will 
soon be better, Harry,” cheerfully, to cheer 
him. But I felt in my heart that she was no 
more. 

At last, after many urgent entreaties, and 
after the servants had come up, clustering in 
a frightened way round the bed — but he 
sent them away again immediately — he put 
on his hat, and went out, soon returning 
with a strange man ; not our own doctor. 
This man was rude and coarse, and ordered 


me aside, as I stood bathing my sister^s 
face, and pulled her arm and hand roughly, 
to see how dead they fell, and stooped down 
to her lips — I thought he touched them even 
— all in a violent and insolent way, that 
shocked me and bewildered me. My hus- 
band stood in the shadow, ghastly pale, 
but not interfering. 

It was too true, what the strange man had 
said so coarsely. She was dead. Yes ; the 
creature that an hour ago had been so full 
of life, so beautiful, so resolute, so young, 
was now a stiffening corpse, inanimate and 
dead, without life and without hope. Oh I 
that word had set my brain on fire ? Dead I 
here, in my house, under my roof — dead so 
mysteriously, so strangely — why ? How ? 
It was a fearful dream, it was no truth that 
lay there. I was in a nightmare ; I was not 
sane ; and thinking how ghastly it all was, 
I fainted softly on the bed, no one knowing, 
till some time after, that I had fallen, and 
was not praying. When I recovered I was 
in my own room, alone. Crawling feebly 
to my sister’s door, I found that she had 
been washed and dressed, and was now laid 
out on her bed. It struck me that all had 
been done in strange haste ; Harry telling 
me the servants had done it while I fainted. 
I knew afterwards that he had told them 
that it was I, and that I would have no 
help. The mystery of it all was soon to be 
unravelled. 

One thing I was decided on — to watch by 
my sister this night. It was in vain that my 
husband opposed me ; in vain that he coaxed 
me by his caresses, or tried to terrify me 
with angry threats. Something of my sistei-’s 
nature seemed to have passed into me ; and 
unless he had positively prevented me by 
force, no other means would have had any 
effect. He gave way to me at last — angrily 
—and the night came on and found me sit- 
ting by the bedside watching my dear sister. 

How beautiful she looked 1. Her flrce, 
still with the gentle mark of sorrow on it 
that it had in life, looked so grand ! She 
was so great, so pure ; she was like a goddess 
sleeping ; she was not like a mere woman of 
this earth. She did not seem to be dead ; 
there was life about her yet, for there was 
still the look of power and of human sympa- 
thy that she used to have when alive. The 
soul was there still, and love and knowledge. 

^ By degrees a strange feeling of her 
living presence in the room came over me. 
Alone in the still midnight, with no sound, 
no person near me, it seemed as if I had 
leisure and power to pass into the world be • 
yond the grave. I felt my sister near me ; 
I felt the passing of her life about me, as 
when one sleeps, but still is conscious that 
another life is weaving in with ours. It 
seemed as if her breath fell warm on my 
face ; as if her shadowy arras held me in 
their clasp; as if her eyes were looking 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


through the darkness at me ; as if I held 
her hands in mine, and her long hair floated 
round my forehead. And then to shake off 
these fancies, and convince myself that she 
was really dead, I looked again and again at 
her lying there ; a marble corpse, ice-cold, 
■with the lips set and rigid, and the death 
band beneath her chin. There she was, 
stiff in her white shroud, the snowy linen 
pressing so lightly on her ; no life within, no 
warmth about her, and all my fancies were 
vain dreams. Then I buried my face in my 
hands, and wept as if my heart was break- 
ing. And when I turned away my eyes 
from her, the presence came around me 
again. So long as I watched her it was not 
there: I saw -the corpse only; but when I 
shut this out from me, then it seemed as if a 
barrier had been removed, and that my 
sister floated near me again. 

I had been praying, sitting thus in these 
alternate feelings of her spiritual presence 
and her bodily death, when, raising my head 
and looking towards the farther corner of 
the room, I saw, standing at some little dis- 
tance, my sister Ellen. I saw her distinctly, 
as distinctly as you may see that red fire 
blaze. Sadly and lovingly her dark eyes 
looked at me, sadly her gentle lips smiled, 
and by look and gesture too she showed me 
that she wished to speak to me. Strange, I 
was not frightened. It was so natural to 
see her there, that for the moment I forgot 
that she was dead. 

“ Ellen,'^ I said, “ what is it V* 

The figure smiled. It came nearer. Oh ! 
do not say it was fancy I I saw it advance ; 
it came glidingly I I remembered afterwards 
that it did not walk — but it came forward — 
to the light, and stood not ten paces from 
me. It looked at me still, in the same sad 
gentle way, and somehow — I do not know 
whether with the hand or by the turning of 
the head — it showed me the throat, where 
were the distinct marks of two powerful 
hands. And then it pointed to its heart; 
and looking, I saw the broad stain of blood 
above it. And then I heard her voice — I 
swear I was not mad — I heard it, I say to 
you distinctly — whisper softly, “ Mary I” and 
then it said, still more audibly, “ Murdered 

And then the figure vanished, and sud- 
denly the whole room was vacant. That one 
dread word had sounded as if forced out by 
the pressure of some strong agony — like a 
man revealing his lifers secret when dying. 
And when it had been spoken, or rather 
wailed forth, there was a sudden sweep and 
chilly rush through the air ; and the life, the 
soul, the presence fled. I was alone again 
with Death. The mission had been fulfilled ; 
the warning had been given ; and then my 
sister passed away, — for her work with earth 
was done. 

Brave and calm as the strongest man that 
ever fought on a battle field, I stood up beside 


37 

my sister’s body. I unfastened her last dress, 
and threw it back from her chest and shoul- 
ders ; I raised her head and took off the 
bandage from round her face ; and then I 
saw deep black bruises on her throat, the 
marks of hands that had grappled her from 
behind, and that had strangled her. And 
then I looked further, and I saw a small 
wound below the left breast, about which 
hung two or three clots of blood, that had 
oozed up, despite all care and knowledge in 
her manner of murder. I knew then she 
had first been suffocated, to prevent her 
screams, and then stabbed where the wound 
would bleed inwardly, and show no sign to 
the mere bystander. 

I covered her up carefully again. I laid 
the pillow smooth and straight, and laid the 
heavy head gently down. I drew the shroud 
close above the dreadful mark of murder. 
And then — still as calm and resolute as I 
had been ever since the revelation had come 
to me — I left the room, and passed into my 
husband’s study. It was on me to discover 
all the truth. 

His writing-table was locked. Where my 
strength came from, I know not ; but, with a 
chisel that was lying on the table, I pried 
the drawer and broke the lock. I opened 
it. There was a long and slender dagger 
lying there, red with blood ; a handful of 
woman’s hair rudely severed from the head, 
lay near it. It was my sister’s hair ! — that 
wavy silken uncurled auburn hair that I had 
always loved and admired so much ! And 
near to these again, were stamps and dies, 
and moulds, and plates, and handwritings 
with facsimiles beneath, and banker’s 
cheques, "and a heap of leaden coin, and 
piles of incomplete bank-notes ; and all the 
evidences of a coiner’s and a forger’s trade, 
— the suspicion of which had caused those 
bitter quarrellings between poor Ellen and 
my husband — the knowledge of which had 
caused her death. 

With these things I saw also a letter ad- 
dressed to Ellen in my husband’s hand- 
writing. It was an unfinished letter, as if 
it had displeased him, and he had made 
another copy. It began with these words — 
no fear that I should forget them ; they are 
burnt into my brain — “ I never really loved 
her, Ellen ; she pleased me, only as a doll 
would please a child; and I married her 
from pity, not from love. You, Ellen, you 
alone could fill my heart ; you alone are m-v 

fit helpmate. Fly with me Ellen 

Here, the letter was left unfinished ; but it 
gave me enough to explain all the meaning 
of the first weeks of my sister’s stay here, 
and why she had called him villain, and 
why he had told her that she might tell me, 
and that I would not believe. 

I saw it all now. I turned my head, to 
see my husband standing a few paces behind 
me. Good Heaven ! I have often thought, 


38 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


vras that man the same man I had loved so 
long and fondly ? 

The strength of horror, not of courage, up- 
held me. I knew he meant to kill me, but 
that did not alarm me ; I only dreaded lest 
his hand should touch me. It was not 
death, it was he I shrank from. I believe 
if he had touched me then, I, should have 
fallen dead at his feet. I stretched out my 
arms in horror, to thrust him back, uttering 
a piercing shriek; and while he made an 
effort to seize me, overreaching himself in 
the madness of his fury, I rushed by him, 
shrieking still, and so fled away into the 
darkness, where I lived, oh 1 for many many 
months I 


When I woke again, I found that my poor 
baby had died, and that my husband had 
gone none knew where. But the fear of his 
return haunted me. I could get no rest day 
or night for dread of him ; and I felt going 
mad with the one hard thought for ever 
pitilessly pursuing me — that I should fall 
again into his hands. I put on widow^s 
weeds — for indeed am I too truly widowed I 
— and then I began wandering about ; 
wandering in poverty and privation, ex- 
pecting every moment to meet him face 
to face; wandering about, so that I may 
escape the more easily when the moment 
does come. 


THE SEVENTH POOE TRAVELLER;, 


We were all yet looking at the Widow, 
after her frightened voice had died away, 
when the Book-Pedlar, apparently afraid of 
being forgotten, asked what did we think 
of his giving us a Legend to wind up with ? 
We all said (except the Law^yer, who wanted 
a description of the murderer to send to the 
Police Hue and Cry, and who was with great 
difficulty nudged to silence by the united 
efforts of the company) that we thought we 
should like it. So, the Book-Pedlar started 
off at score, thus ; 

Girt round with rugged mountains 
The fair Lake Constance lies ! 

In her blue heart reflected, 

Shine back the starry skies ; 

And watching each white cloudlet 
Float silently and slow, 

You think a piece of heaven 
Lies on our earth below ! 

Midnight is there : and silence 
Enthroned in Heaven, looks down 

Upon her own calm mirror. 

Upon a sleeping town : 

For Bregenz, that quaint city 
Upon the Tyrol shore. 

Has stood upon Lake Constance, 

A thousand years and more. 

Her battlements and towers. 

Upon their rocky steep. 

Have cast their trembling shadow 
For ages on the deep : 

Mountain, and lake, and valley, 

A sacred legend know. 

Of how the town was saved one night. 
Three hundred years- ago. 

Far from her home and kindred, 

A Tyrol maid had fled. 


To serve in the Swiss valleys. 

And toil for daily bread ; 

And every year that fleeted 
So silently and fast, 

Seemed to bear farther from her 
The memory of the Past. 

She served kind, gentle masters, 

Nor asked for rest or change ; 

Her friends seemed no more new ones. 
Their speech seemed no more strange ; 

And when she led her cattle ' 

To pasture every day, 

She ceased to look and wonder 
On which side Bregenz lay 

She spoke no more of Bregenz, 

With longing and with tears ; 

Her Tyrol home seemed faded 
In a deep mist of years. 

She heeded not the rumors 
Of Austrian war and strife ; 

Each day she rose contented. 

To the calm toils of life. 

Yet when her master’s children 
Would clustering round her stand. 

She sang them the old ballads 
Of her own native land ; 

And when at morn and evening 
She knelt before God’s throne. 

The accents of her childhood 
Rose to her lips alone 

And so she dwelt ; the valley 
More peaceful year by year ; 

Yet suddenly strange portents. 

Of some great deed seemed near. 

The golden corn was bending 
Upon its fragile stalk. 

While farmers, heedless of their fields. 
Paced up and down in talk. 


89 


THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS. 


The men seemed stern and altered, 
With looks cast on the ground ; 
With anxious faces, one by one, 

The women gathered round ; 

All talk of flax, or spinning, 

Or work, was put away ; 

The very children seemed afraid 
To go alone to play. 

One day, out in the meadow, 

With strangers from the town, 

Some secret plan discussing. 

The men walked up and down. 

Yet, now and then seemed watching, 
A strange uncertain gleam, 

That looked like lances ’mid the trees. 
That stood below the stream. 

At eve they all assembled, 

All care and doubt were fled ; 

With jovial laugh they feasted. 

The board was nobly spread. 

The elder of the village 
Rose up, his glass in hand. 

And cried, “We drink the downfall 
“ Of an accursed land ! 

“ The night is growing darker, 

“ Ere one more day is flown, 

“ Bregenz, our foemen’s stronghold 
“ Bregenz shall be our own !” 

The women shrank in terror 
(Yet Pride, too, had her part). 

But one poor Tyrol maiden 
Felt death within her heart 

Before her, stood fair Bregenz, 

Once more her towers arose ; 

What were the friends beside her 1 
Only her country’s foes ! 

The faces of her kinsfolk. 

The days of childhood flown. 

The echoes of her mountains. 
Reclaimed her as their own ! 

Nothing she heard around her, 
(Though shouts rang forth again) 
Gone were the green Swiss valleys. 
The pasture, and the plain ; 

Before her eyes one vision, 

And in her heart one cry. 

That said, “ Go forth, save Bregenz, 
And then, if need be, die !” 

With trembling haste and breathless, 
With noiseless step, she sped ; 
Horses and weary cattle 
Were standing in- the shed. 

She loosed the strong white charger. 
That fed from out her hand ; 

She mounted, and she turned his head 
Towards her native land. 

Out — out into the darkness — 

Faster, and still more fast ; 

The smooth grass flies behind her, 

The chestnut wood is past ; 


She looks up ; clouds are heavy ; 

Why is her steed so slow 1 
Scarcely the wind beside them. 

Can pass them as they go. 

“ Faster !” she cries, “ 0 faster !” 

Eleven the church-bells chime ; 

“ O God,” she cries, “ help Bregenz, 

And bring me there in time !” 

But louder than bells’ ringing. 

Or lowing of the kine, 

Grows nearer in the midnight 
The rushing of the Rhine. 

She strives to pierce the blackness, 

And looser throws the rein ; 

Her steed must breast the waters 
That dash above his mane. 

How gallantly, how nobly. 

He struggles through the foam 
And see — in the far distance. 

Shine out the lights of home ! 

Shall not the roaring waters 
Their headlong gallop check 1 
The steed draws back in terror. 

She leans above his neck 
To watch the flowing darkness. 

The bank is high and steep. 

One pause — he staggers forward. 

And plunges in the deep. 

Up the steep bank he bears her. 

And now, they rush again 
Towards the heights of Bregenz, 

That tower above the plain. 

They reach the gate of Bregenz, 

Just as the midnight rings. 

And out come serf and soldier 
To meet the news she brings. 

Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight 
Her battlements are manned ; 

Defiance greets the army 
That marches on the land. 

And if to deeds heroic 

Should endless fame be paid, 

Bregenz does well to honor 
The noble Tyrol maid. 

Three hundred years are vanished. 

And yet upon the hill 
An old stone gateway rises. 

To do her honor still. 

And there, when Bregenz women 
Sit spinning in the shade. 

They see in quaint old carving 
The charger and the Maid. 

And when, to guard old Bregenz, 

By gateway, street, and tower, 

The warder paces all night long. 

And calls each passing hour ; 

“ Nine,” “ ten,” “ eleven,” he cries aloud* 
And then (0 crown of Fame !) 

When midnight pauses in the skies, 

He calls the maiden’s name ! 


THE ROAD. 


The stories being all finished, and the 
Wassail too, we broke up as the Cathedral- 
bell struck Twelve. I did not take leave of 
my Travellers that night ; for, it had come 
into my head to reappear in conjunction 
with some hot coffee, at seven in the morn- 
ing. 

As I passed along the High Street, I 
heard the Waits at a distance, and struck 
off to find them. They were playing near 
one of the old gates of the city, at the corner 
of a wonderfully quaint row of red-brick tene- 
ments, which the clarionet obligingly in- 
formed me were inhabited by the Minor- 
Canons. They had odd little porches over 
tlie doors, like sounding-boards over old pul- 
pits ; and I thought I should like to see one 
of the Minor-Canons come out upon his top 
step, and favor us with a little Christmas 
discourse about the poor scholars of Ro- 
chester ; taking for his text the words of 
his Master, relative to the devouring of 
Widows^ houses. 

The clarionet was so communicative, and 
my inclinations were (as they generally are), 
of so vagabond a tendency, that I accompa- 
nied the Waits across an open green called 
the Vines, and assisted — in the French sense 
—at the performance of two waltzes, two 
polkas, and three Irish melodies, before I 
thought of my inn any more. However, I 
returned to it then, and found a fiddle in the 
kitchen, and Ben, the wall-eyed young man, 
and two chambermaids, circling round the 
great deal table with the utmost animation. 

I had a very bad night. It cannot have 
been owing to the turkey, or the beef — and 
the Wassail is out of the question — but, in 
every endeavor that I made to get to sleep, 
I failed most dismally. Now, I was at Ba- 
dajos with a fiddle ; now, haunted by the 
widoVs murdered sister. Now, I was riding 
on a little blind girl to save my native town 
from sack and ruin. Now, I was expostula- 
ting with the dead mother of the unconscious 
little sailor-boy ; now, dealing in diamonds 
in Sky Fair; now, for life or death hiding 
mince-pies under bed-room carpets. For all 
this, I was never asleep; and, in whatsoever 
unreasonable direction my mind rambled, 
the effigy of Master Richard Watts perpetu- 
ally embarrassed it. 

In a word, I only got out of the worship- 
ful Master Richard Watts’s way, by getting 
out of bed in the dark at six o’clock, and 
tumbling, as my custom is, into all the cold 
water that could be accumulated for the 
( 40 ) 


purpose. The outer air was dull and cold 
enough in the street, when I came down 
there; and the one candle in our supper- 
room at Watts’s Charity looked as pale in 
the burning, as if it had had a bad night 
too. But, my Travellers had all slept 
soundly, and they took to the hot coffee, and 
the piles of bread and butter which Ben had 
arranged like deals in a timber-yard, as 
kindly as I could desire. 

While it was yet scarcely daylight, we all 
came out into the street together, and there 
shook hands. The widow took the little 
sailor towards Chatham, where he was to 
find a steamboat for Sheerness ; the lawyer, 
with an extremely knowing look, went his 
own way, without committing himself by 
announcing his intentions ; two more struck 
off by the cathedral and old castle for Maid- 
stone ; and the book-pedlar accompanied me 
over the bridge. As for me, I was going to 
walk, by Cobham Woods, as far upon my 
way to London as I fancied. 

When I came to the stile and footpath by 
which I was to diverge from the main-road, 

I bade farewell to my last remaining Poor 
Traveller, and pursued my way alone. And 
now, the mist began to rise in the most 
beautiful manner, and the sun to shine ; and 
as I went on through the bracing air, see- 
ing the hoar frost sparkle everywhere, I felt 
as if all Nature shared in the joy of the great 
Birthday. 

Going through the woods, the softness of 
my tread upon the mossy ground and among 
the brown leaves, enhanced the Christmas 
sacredness by which I felt surrounded. As 
the whitened stems environed me, I thought 
how the Founder of the time had neveiT 
raised his benignant hand, save to bless and 
heal, except in the case of one unconscious 
tree. By Cobham Hall, I came to the vil- 
lage, and the churchyard where the dead 
had been quietly buried, “ in the sure and 
certain hope” which Christmas time in- 
spired. What children could I see at play, 
and not be loving of, recalling who had 
loved them I No garden that I passed, was 
out of unison with the day, for I remember- 
ed that the tomb was in a garden, and that 
“ she supposing him to be the gardener,” 
had said, “Sir, if thou have borne him 
hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and 
I will take him away.” In time, the distant 
river with the ships, came full in view, and 
with it pictures of the poor fishermen mend- 
ing their nets, who arose and followed him 


THE SEVEN POOH TRAVELLERS. 


41 


— of the teaching of the people from a ship 
pushed off a little way from shore, by reason 
of the multitude — of a majestic figure walk- 
ing on the water, in the loneliness of night. 
My very shadow on the ground was eloquent 
of Christmas ; for, did not the people lay their 
sick where the mere shadows of the men 
who had heard and seen, him, might fall as 
they passed along ? 

Thus, Christmas begirt me, far and near, 
until had come to Blackheath, and had 
walked down the long vista of gnarled old 


trees in Greenwich Park, and was being 
steam-rattled, through the mists now closing 
in once more, towards the lights of London. 
Brightly they shone, but not so brightly as 
my own fire and the brighter faces around 
it, when we came together to celebrate the 
day. And there I told of worthy Master 
Richard Watts, and of my supper with 
the Six Poor Travellers who were neither 
Rogues nor Proctors, and from that hour 
to this, I have never 'seen one of them 
again. 


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NINE 


NEW STOEIES BY THE CHRISTMAS EIRE. 



THE SCHOOLBOY’S STORY 


Being rather young at present — I am 
getting on in years, but still I am rather 
young — I have no particular adventures of 
my own to fall back upon. It wouldn^t 
much interest anybody here, I suppose, to 
know what a screw the Reverend is, or what 
a griffin she is, or how they do stick it into 
parents — particularly hair-cutting and med- 
ical attendance. One of our fellows was 
charged in his half^s account twelve and 
six-pence for two pills — tolerably profitable 
at six and threepence a-piece, I should think 
— and he never took them either, but put 
them up the sleeve of his jacket. 

As to the beef, it’s shameful. It’s not 
beef. Regular beefis’t veins. You can chew 
regular beef. Besides which, there’s gravy 
to regular beef, and you never see a drop to 
ours. Another of our fellows went home 
ill, and heard the family doctor tell his 
father that he couldn’t account for his com- 
plaint unless it was the beer. Of course it 
was the beer, and well it might be I 

However, beef and Old Cheeseman are two 
different things. So is beer. It was Old 
Cheeseman I meant to tell about ; not the 
manner in which our fellows get their con- 
stitutions destroyed for the sake of profit. 

Why, look at the pie-crust alone. There’s 
no flakiness in it. It’s solid — like damp 
lead. Then our fellows get nightmares, and 
are bolstered for calling out and waking 
other fellows. Who can wonder ! 

Old Cheeseman one night waked in his 
sleep, put his hat on over his night-cap, got 
hold of a fishing-rod and a cricket-bat, and 
went down into the parlor, where they 
naturally thought from his appearance he 
was a Ghost. Why, he never would have 
done that, if his meals had been wholesome. 
When we all begin to walk in our sleeps, I 
suppose they’ll be sorry for it. 

Old Cheeseman wasn’t second Latin Mas- 
ter then ; he was a fellow himself. He was 
first brought there, very small, in a post- 
chaise, by a woman who was always taking 
snuff and shaking him — and that was the 


most he remembered about it. He never 
went home for the holidays. His accounts 
(he never learnt any extras) were sent to a 
Bank, and the Bank paid them ; and he had 
a brown suit twice a year, and went into 
boots at twelve. They were always too big 
for him, too. 

In the Midsummer holidays, some of our 
fellows who lived within walking distance, 
used to come back and climb the trees outside 
the playground wall, on purpose to look at 
Old Cheeseman reading there by himself. 
He was always as mild as the tea — and that’s 
pretty mild, I should hope I — so when they 
whistled to him, he looked up and nodded ; 
and when they said “ Halloa Old Cheeseman, 
what have you had for dinner?” he said 
“ Boiled mutton and when they said 
“ An’t it solitary, Old Cheeseman ?” he said 
“ It is a little dull sometimes and then 
they said “Well, good bye. Old Cheeseman 1” 
and climbed down again. Of course it was 
imposing on Old Cheeseman to give him 
nothing but boiled mutton through a whole 
Vacation, but that was just like the system. 
When they didn’t give him boiled mutton 
they gave him rice pudding, pretending it 
was a treat. And saved the butcher. 

So Old Cheeseman went on. The holidays 
brought him into other trouble besides the 
loneliness ; because when the fellows began 
to come back, not wanting to, he was always 
glad to see them: which was aggravating- 
when they were not at all glad to see him, 
and so he got his head knocked against walls, 
and that was the way his nose bled. But he 
was a favorite in general. Once, a subscrip- 
tion was raised for him ; and, to keep up his 
spirits, he was presented before the holidays 
with two white mice, a rabbit, a pigeon, and 
a beautiful puppy. Old Cheeseman cried 
about it, especially soon afterwards, wheri' 
they all ate one another. 

Of course Old Cheeseman used to be called 
by the names of all sorts of cheeses. Double 
Glo’sterman, Family Cheshireman, Dutch- 
man, North Wiltshireman, and all that 

(43) 


44 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


But he never minded it. And I don’t mean 
to say he was old in point of years, because 
he wasn’t, only he was called, from the first, 
Old Cheeseman. 

At last. Old Cheeseman was made second 
Latin Master. He was brought in one morn- 
ing at the beginning of a new half, and pre- 
sented to the school in that capacity as “ Mr. 
Cheeseman.” Then our fellows all agreed 
that Old Cheeseman was a spy, and a de- 
serter, who had gone over to the enemy’s 
camp, and sold himself for gold. It was no 
excuse for him that he had sold himself for 
very little gold — two pound ten a quarter, 
and his washing, as was reported. It was 
decided by a Parliament which sat about it, 
that Old Cheeseman’s mercenary motives 
could alone be taken into account, and that 
he had “ coined our blood for drachmas.” 
The Parliament took the expression out of 
the quarrel scene between Brutus and Cas- 
sius. 

When it was settled in this strong way 
that Old Cheeseman was a tremendous trai- 
tor, who had wormed himself into our fellows’ 
secrets on purpose to get himself into favor 
by giving up everything he knew, all cour- 
ageous fellows were invited to come forward 
and enrol themselves in a Society for making 
a set against him. The President of the 
Society was First boy, named Bob Tarter. 
His father was in the West Indies, and he 
owned, himself, that his father was worth 
millions. He had great power among our 
fellows, and he wrote a parody, beginning, 

« Who made believe to be so meek 
That we could hardly hear him speak. 

Yet turned out an Informing Sneak 1 
Old Cheeseman.” 

—and on in that way through more than a 
dozen verses, which he used to go and sing, 
every morning, close by the new master’s 
desk. He trained one of the low boys too, 
a rosy cheeked little Brass who didn’t care 
what he did, to go up to him with his Latin 
Grammar one morning, and say it so; — 
Nominativiis pronominum — Old Cheeseman, 
j-aro exprimitur — was never suspected, nisi 
distinctionis — of being an informer, au em- 
phasis gratia — until he proved one. Ut — 
for instance, Vos damnastis — when he sold 
the boys. Quasi — as though, dicat — he should 
say, Pretcerea nemo— I’m a Judas ! All this 
produced a great effect on Old Cheeseman. 
He had never had much hair ; but what he 
had, began to get thinner and thinner every 
day. He grew paler and more worn ; and 
sometimes of an evening he was seen sitting 
at his desk with a precious long snuff to his 
candle, and his hands before hi^face^ crying. 
vBut no member of the Society could pity 
him, even if he felt inclined, because, the 
President said it was Old Cheeseman’s con- 
science. 

So Old Cheeseman went on, and didn’t he 


lead a miserable life I Of course the Rev 
erend turned up his nose at him, and of 
course she did — because both of them always 
do at all the masters, but he suffered from 
the fellows most, and he suffered from them 
constantly. He never told about it, that the 
society could find out ; but he got no credit 
for that, because the President said it was 
Old Cheeseman’s cowardice. 

He had only one friend in the world, and 
that one was almost as powerless as he was, 
for it was only Jane. Jane was a sort of 
wardrobe-woman to our fellows, and took 
care of the boxes. She came, at first, I 
believe, as a kind of apprentice, some of 
our fellows say from a Charity, but I don’t 
know, and after her time was out, had 
stopped at so much a year. So little a year, 
perhaps I ought to say, for it is far more 
likely. However, she had put some pounds 
in the Savings Bank, and she was a very 
nice young woman. She was not quite 
pretty ; but she had a very frank, honest, 
bright face, and all our fellows were fond 
of her. She was uncommonly neat and 
cheerful, and uncommonly comfortable and 
kind. And if anything was the matter with 
a fellow’s mother, he always went and 
showed the letter to Jane. 

Jane was Old Cheeseman’s friend. The 
more the Society went against him, the 
more she stood % him. She used to give 
him a good-humored look out of her still- 
room window, sometimes, that seemed to 
set him up for the day. She used to pass out 
of the orchard and the kitchen-garden (al- 
ways kept locked, I believe you !) through 
the play-ground, when she might have gone 
the other way, only to give a turn of her 
head, as much as to say, “ Keep up your 
spirits !” to Old Cheeseman. His slip of a 
room was so fresh and orderly, that it was 
well known who looked after it while he 
was at his desk ; and when our fellows saw 
a smoking hot dumpling on his plate at 
dinner, they knew with indignation who 
had sent it up. 

Under these circumstances, the Society 
resolved, after a quantity of meeting and 
debating, that Jane should be requested to 
cut Old Cheeseman dead; and that if she 
refused, she must be sent to Coventry her- 
self. So a deputation, headed by the Presi- 
dent, was appointed to wait on Jane, and 
inform her of the vote the Society had been 
under the painful necessity of passing. She 
was very much respected for all her good 
qualities, and there was a story of her hav- 
ing once waylaid the Reverend in his own 
study, and got a fellow off from severe pun- 
ishment, of her own kind comfortable heart. 
So the deputation didn’t much like the job. 
However, they went up, and the President 
told Jane all about it. Upon which Jane 
turned very red, burst into tears, informed 
the President and deputation, in a way not 


45 


NINE NEW STORIES B1 

at all like her usual way, that they were a 
parcel of malicious young savages, and 
turned the whole respected body out of the 
room. Consequently, it was entered in the 
Society's book (kept in astronomical cypher, 
for fear of detection), that all communica- 
tion with Jane was interdicted; and the 
President addressed the members on this 
convincing instance of Old Chee8eman^s 
undermining. 

But Jane was true to Old Cheesemau as 
Old Cheeseman was false to our fellows— 
in their opinion at all events — and steadily 
continued to be his .only friend. It was a 
reat exasperation to the Society, because 
ane was as much a loss to them as she was 
a gain to him; and being more inveterate 
against him than ever, they treated him 
worse than ever. At last, one morning, his 
desk stood empty, his room was peeped into 
and found to be vacant, and a whisper went 
about among the pale faces of our fellows that 
Old Cheeseman, unable to bear it any longer, 
had got up early and drowned himself. 

The mysterious looks of the other masters 
after breakfast, and the evident fact that Old 
Cheeseman was not expected, confirmed the 
Society in this opinion. Some began to dis- 
cuss whether the President was liable to 
hanging or only transportation for life, and 
the President’s face showed a great anxiety 
to know which. However, he said that a 
jury of his countrymen should find him 
game ; and that in his address he should put 
it to them to lay their hands upon their 
hearts, and say whether they, as Britons, 
approved of Informers, and how they thought 
they w'ould like it themselves. Some of the 
Society considered that he had better run 
away until he found a Forest, where he 
might change clothes with a woodcutter, and 
stain his face with blackberries ; but the 
majority believed that if he stood his ground, 
his father — belonging, as he did, to the 
West Indies, and being worth millions — 
could buy him ofi*. 

All our fellows’ hearts beat fast when the 
Reverend came in, and made a sort of a 
Roman, or a Field Marshal, of himself with 
the ruler ; as he always did before delivering 
an address. But their fears were nothing 
to their astonishment when he came out 
with the story that Old Cheeseman, “ so long 
our respected friend and fellow-pilgrim in 
the pleasant plains of knowledge,” he called 
him — 0 yes ! I dare say I Much of that ! — 
was the orphan child of a disinherited young 
lady who had married against her father’s 
wish, and whose young husband had died, 
and who had died of sorrow herself, and 
whose unfortunate baby (Old Cheeseman) 
had been brought up at the cost of a grand- 
father who would never consent to see it, 
baby, boy, or man : which grandfather was 
now dead, and serve him right — that’s my 
putting in — and which grandfather’s large 


THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 

property, there being no will, was now, and 
all of a sudden and for ever. Old Cheese- 
man’s I ^ Our so long respected friend and 
fellow-pilgrim in the pleasant plains of 
knowledge, the Reverend wound up a lot 
of bothering quotations by saying, would 
“ come among us once more” that day fort- 
night, when he desired to take leave of us 
himself in a more particular manner. "With 
these words, he stared severely round at 
our fellows, and went solemnly out. 

There was precious consternation among 
the members of the Society now. Lots of 
them wanted to resign, and lots more began 
to try to make out that they had never be- 
longed to it. However, the President stuck 
up, and said that they must stand or fall 
together, and that if a breach was made it 
should be over his body — which was meant 
to encourage the Society: but it didn’t. 
The President further said, he would con- 
sider the position in which they stood, and 
would give them his best opinion and advice 
in a few days. This was eagerly looked for, 
as he knew a good deal of the world on ac- 
count of his father’s being in the West 
Indies. 

After days and days of hard thinking, 
and drawing armies all over his slate, the 
President called our fellows together, and 
made the matter clear. He said it was plain 
that when Old Cheeseman came on the ap- 
pointed day, his first revenge would be to 
impeach the Society, and have it flogged all 
round. After witnessing with joy the tor- 
ture of his enemies, and gloating over the 
cries which agony would extort from them, 
the probability was that he would invite the 
Reverend, on pretence of conversation, into 
a private room — say the parlor into which 
parents were shown, where the two great 
globes were which were never used — and 
would there reproach him with the various 
frauds and oppressions he had endured at 
his hands. At the close of his observations, 
he would make a' signal to a Prize-fighter 
concealed in the passage, who would then 
appear and pitch into the Reverend till he 
was left insensible. Old Cheeseman would 
then make Jane a present of from five to 
ten pounds, and would leave the establish- 
ment in fiendish triumph. 

The President explained that against the 
parlor part, or the Jane part, of these 
arrangements he had nothing to say ; but, 
on the part of the Society, he counselled 
deadly resistance. With this view he re- 
commended that all available desks should 
be filled with stones, and that the first word 
of the complaint should be the signal to 
every fellow to let fly at Old Cheeseman. 
The bold advice put the Society in better 
spirits, and was unanimously taken. A 
post about Old Cheeseman’s size was put 
up in the playground, and all our fellows 
practised at it till it was dented all over. 


4b DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


When the day came, and places were 
called, every fellow sat down in a tremble. 
There had been much discussing and dis- 
puting as to how Old Cheeseman would 
come ; but it was the general opinion that 
he would appear in a sort of a triumphal 
car drawn by four horses, with two livery 
servants in front, and the Prize-fighter in 
disguise up behind. So all our fellows sat 
listening for the sound of wheels. But no 
wheels were heard, for Old Cheeseman 
walked after all, and came into the school 
without any preparation. Pretty much as 
he used to be, only dressed in black. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the Reverend, pre- 
senting him, “ our so long respected friend 
and fellow-pilgrim in the pleasant plains of 
knowledge, is desirous to offer a word or 
two. Attention, gentlemen, one and all !” 

Every fellow stole his hand into his desk, 
and looked at the President. The President 
was all ready, and taking aim at Old Cheese- 
man with his eyes. 

What did Old Cheeseman then, but walk 
up to his old desk, look round him with a 
queer smile as if there was a tear in his eye, 
and began in a quavering mild voice, “ My 
dear companions and old friends !” 

Every fellow’s hand came out of his desk, 
and the President suddenly began to cry. 

“ My dear companions and old friends,” 
said Old Cheeseman, “ you have heard of 
my good fortune. I have passed so many 
ears under this roof — my entire life so far, 
may say — that I hope you have been glad 
to hear of it for my sake. I could never 
enjoy it without exchanging congratulations 
with you. If we have ever misunderstood 
one another at all, pray my dear boys let us 
forgive and forget. I have a great tender- 
ness for you, and I am sure you return it. 
I want, in the fullness of a grateful heart, to 
shake hands with you every one. I have 
come back to do it, if you please, my dear 
boys.” 

Since the President had begun to cry, 
several other fellows had broken out here 
and there ; but now, when Old Cheeseman 
began with him as first boy, laid his left 
hand affectionately on his shoulder and gave 
him his right ; and when the President said 
“ Indeed I don’t deserve it, sir ; upon my 
honor I don’t there was sobbing and cry- 
ing all over the school. Every other fellow 
said he didn’t deserve it, much in the same 
way ; but Old Cheeseman, not minding that 
a bit, went cheerfully round to every boy, 
and wound up with every master — finishing 
off the Reverend last. 

Then a snivelling little chap in a corner, 
who was always under some punishment or 
other, set up a shrill cry of “ Success to Old 
Cheeseman I Hooray I” The Reverend 
glared upon him, and said “i/r. Cheeseman, 
Sir.” But, Old Cheeseman protesting that 
he liked his old name a great deal better 


than his new one, all our fellows took up the 
cry; and, for I don’t know how many 
minutes, there was such a thundering of 
feet and hands, and such a roaring of Old 
Cheeseman, as never was heard. 

After that, there was a spread in the 
dining room of the most magnificent kind. 
Fowls,' tongues, preserves, fruits, confection- 
eries, jellies, neguses, barley-sugar temples, 
trifles, crackers — eat all you can and pocket 
what you like — all at Old Cheeseman’s ex- 
pense. After that, speeches, whole holiday, 
double and treble sets of all manners of 
games, donkeys, pony-chaises and drive 
yourself, dinner for all the masters at the 
Seven Bells, (twenty pounds a-head our 
fellows estimated it at,) an annual holiday 
and feast fixed for that day every year, and 
another on Old Cheeseman’s birthday— 
Reverend bound down before the fellows to 
allow it, so that he could never back out — 
all at Old Cheeseman’s expense. 

And didn’t our fellows go down in a body 
and cheer outside the Seven Bells ? 0 no I 

But there’s something else besides. Don’t 
look at the next story-teller, for there’s more 
et. Next day, it was resolved that the 
ociety should make it up with Jane, and 
then be dissolved. What do you think of 
Jane being gone, though I “What? Gone 
for ever ?” said our fellows, with long faces. 
“ Yes, to be sure,” was all the answer they 
could get. None of the people about the 
house would say anything more. At length, 
the first boy took upon himself to ask the 
Reverend whether our old friend Jane was 
really gone ? The Reverend (he has got a 
daughter at home — turn-up nose, and* red) 
replied severely, “ Yes sir. Miss Pitt is 
gone.” The idea of calling Jane Miss Pitt ! 
Some said she had been sent away in dis- 
grace for taking money from Old Cheeseman ; 
others said she had gone into Old Cheese- 
man’s service at a rise of ten pounds a year. 
All that our fellows knew, was, she was 
gone. 

It was two or three months afterwards, 
when, one afternoon, an open carriage stop- 
ped at the cricket-field, just outside bounds, 
with a lady and gentleman in it, who looked 
at the game a long time and stood up to see 
it played. Nobody thought much about 
them, until the same little snivelling chap 
came in, against all rules, from the post 
where he was Scout, and said, “ it’s Jane !” 
Both Elevens forgot the game directly, and 
ran crowding round the carriage. It il6as 
Janel In such a bonnet I And if you’ll 
believe me, Jane was married to Old Cheese* 
man. 

It soon became quite a regular thing when 
our fellows were hard at it in the play- 
ground, to see a carriage at the low part of 
the wall where it joins the high part, and a 
lady and gentleman standing up in it, look- 
ing over. The gentleman was always Old 


NINE NEAV STOrJES BY 

Cheeseman, and the lady was always 
Jane. 

The first time I ever saw them, I saw 
them in that way. There had been a good 
many changes among our fellows then, and 
it had turned out that Bob Tarter^s father 
wasn^t worth millions I He wasn^t worth 
anything. Bob had gone for a soldier, and 
Old Cheeseman had purchased his discharge. 
But that’s not the carriage. The carriage 
stopped, and all our fellows stopped as soon 
as it was seen. 

“ So you have never sent me to Coventry 
after all I” said the lady, laughing as our 
fellows swarmed up the wall to shake hands 
with her, “Are you never going to do it?” 

“ Never ! never I never I” on all sides. 

I didn’t understand what she meant then, 
but of course I do now. I was very much 
pleased with her face though, and with her 
good way, and I couldn’t help looking at 
her — and at him too — with all our fellows 
clustering so joyfully about them. 

They soon took notice of me as a new boy, 
so I thought I might as well swarm up the 
wall myself, and shake hands with them as 
the rest did. I was quite as glad to see them 


THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 47 

as the rest were, and was quite as familiar 
with them in a moment. 

“ Only a fortnight now,” said Old Cheese- 
man, “ to the holidays. Who stops? Any- 
body?” 

A good many fingers pointed at me, and 
a good many voices cried, “He does I’' 
For it was the year when you were all away, 
and rather low I was about it, I can tell you. 

“ Oh 1” said Old Cheeseman. “ But it’s 
solitary here in the holiday time. He had 
better come to us.” 

So I went to their delightful house, and 
was as happy as I could possibly be. They 
understand how to conduct themselves to- 
wards boys, they do. When they take a boy 
to the play, for instance, they do take him. 
They don’t go in after it’s begun, or come 
out before it’s over. They know how to 
bring a boy up, too. Look at their own I 
Though he is very little as yet, what a capi- 
tal boy he is I Why, my next favorite to 
Mrs. Cheeseman and Old Cheeseman, is 
young Cheeseman. 

So, now I have told you all I know about 
Old Cheeseman. And it’s not much after 
all, I am afraid. Is it 




THE OLD LADY’S STOKY. 


I HAVE never told you my secret, my dear 
nieces. However, this Christmas, which 
may well be the last to an old woman, I will 
give the whole story ; for though it is a 
strange story, and a sad one, it is true ; and 
what sin there was in it I trust I may have 
expiated by my tears and my repentance. 
Perhaps the last expiation of all is this pain- 
ful confession. 

We were very young at the time, Lucy 
and I, and the neighbors said we were pretty. 
So we were, I believe, though entirely difier- 
ent ; for Lucy was quiet, and fair, and I was 
full of life and spirits; wild beyond any 
power of control, and reckless. I was the 
elder by two years; but more fit to be in 
leading strings ' myself than to guide or 
govern my sister. But she was so good, so 
quiet, and so wise, that she needed no one’s 
guidance ; for if advice was to be given, it 
was she who gave it, not I and I never 
knew her judgment or perception fail. She 
was the darling of the house. My mother 
iiad died soon after Lucy was born. A 
“Jcture in the dining-room of her, in spite 
of all the difierence ^^f dress, was exactly 
like Lucy ; and, as Lucy was now seventeen 
and my mother had been only eighteen 


when it was taken, there was no discrepancy 
of years. 

One Allhallow’s eve a party of us — all 
young girls, not one of us twenty years of 
age — were trying our fortunes round the 
drawing-room fire ; throwing nuts into the 
brightest blaze, to hear if mythic “ He” ’s 
loved any of us, and in what proportion ; or 
pouring hot lead into water, to find cradles 
and rings, or purses and coffins ; or breaking 
the whites of eggs into tumblers half full of 
water, and then drawing up the white into 
pictures of the future — the prettiest experi- 
ment of all. I remember Lucy could only 
make a recumbent figure of hers, like a 
marble monument in miniature ; and I, a 
maze of masks and skulls and things that 
looked like dancing apes or imps,^ and vapory 
lines that did not require much imagination 
to fashion into ghosts or spirits ; for they 
were clearly human in the outline, but thin 
and vapory. And we all laughed a great 
deal, and teased one another, and were as 
full of fun and mischief, and innocence and 
thoughtlessness, as a nest of young birds. 

There was a certain room at the other end 
of our rambling old manor-house, which 
was said to be haunted, and which my father 


48 DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


had therefore discontinued as a dwelling- 
room, so that we children might not be 
frightened by foolish servants ; and he had 
made it into a lumber-place — a kind of 
ground-floor granary — where no one had 
any business. Well, it was proposed that 
one of us should go into this room alone, 
lock the door, stand before the glass, pare 
and eat an apple very deliberately, looking 
fixedly in the glass all the time ; and then, 
if the mind never once wandered, the future 
husband would be clearly shown in the glass. 
As I was always the foolhardy girl of every 
party, and was, moreover, very desirous of 
seeing that apocryphal individual, my future 
husband, (whose non-appearance I used to 
wonder at and bewail in secret) I was glad 
enough to make the trial, notwithstanding 
the entreaties of some of the more timid. 
Lucy, above all, clung to me, and besought 
me earnestly not to go — at last, almost with 
tears. But my pride of courage, and my 
curiosity, and a certain nameless feeling of 
attraction, were too strong for me. I laughed 
Lucy and her abettors into silence ; uttered 
half a dozen bravadoes ; and taking up a 
bed-room candle, passed through the long 
silent passages, to the cold, dark, deserted 
room — my heart beating with excitement, 
my foolish head dizzy with hope and faith. 
The church-clock chimed a quarter past 
twelve as I opened the door. 

It was an awful night. The windows 
shook, as if every instant they would burst 
in with some strong man’s hand on the bars, 
and his shoulder against the frames ; and 
the trees howled and shrieked, as if each 
branch were sentient and in pain. The ivy 
beat against the window, sometimes with 
fury, and sometimes with the leaves slowly 
scraping against the glass, and drawing out 
long shrill sounds, like spirits crying to each 
other. In the room itself it was worse. 
Rats had made it their refuge for many 
years, and they rushed behind the wainscot 
and down inside the walls, bringing with 
them showers of lime and dust, which rattled 
like chains, or sounded like men’s feet hur- 
rying to and fro ; and every now and then, a 
cry broke through the room, one could not 
tell from where or from what, but a cry, dis- 
tinct and human ; heavy blows seemed to be 
struck on the floor, which cracked like part- 
ing ice beneath my feet, and loud knockings 
shook the walls. Yet in this tumult, I was 
not afraid. I reasoned on each new sound 
very calmly — and said, “ Those are rats,” or 
“ those are leaves,” and “ birds in the chim- 
ney,” or “ owls in the ivy,” as each new 
howl or scream struck my ear. And I was 
not in the least frightened or disturbed ; it 
all seemed natural and familiar. I placed 
the candle on a table in the midst of the 
room, where an old broken mirror stood; 
and, looking steadily into the glass (having 
first wiped off the dust), I began to eat Eve’s 


forbidden fruit, wishing intently, as I had 
« been bidden, for the apparition of my future 
husband. 

In about ten minutes I heard a dull, vague, 
unearthly sound ; felt, not heard. It was as 
if countless wings rushed by, and small low 
voices whispering too ; as if a crowd, a mul- 
titude of life was about me ; as if shadowy 
faces crushed up against me, and eyes and 
hands, and sneering lips, all mocked me. I 
was suffocated. The air was so heavy, so 
filled with life, that I could not breathe. I 
was pressed on from all sides, and could not 
turn nor move without parting thickening 
vapors. I heard my own name, I can swear 
to that to-day ! I heard it repeated through 
the room ; and then bursts of laughter fol- 
lowed, and the wings rustled and fluttered, 
and the whispering voices mocked and chat- 
tered, and the heavy air, so filled with life, 
hung heavier and thicker, and the Things 
pressed up to me closer, and checked the 
breath on my lips with the clammy breath 
from theirs. 

I was not alarmed. I was not excited; 
but I was fascinated and spell-bound ; yet 
with every sense seeming to possess ten times 
its natural power. I still went on looking in 
the glass, still earnestly desiring an appari- 
tion, when suddenly I saw a man’s face 

eering over my shoulder in the glass. Girls, 

could draw that face to this hour ! The 
low forehead, with the short curling hair, 
black as jet, growing down in a sharp point ; 
the dark eyes, beneath thick eye-brows, 
burning with a peculiar light ; the nose and 
the dilating nostrils ; the thin lips, curling 
into a smile, I see them all plainly before 
me now. And — 0, the smile that it was ! — 
the mockery and sneer, the derision, the 
sarcasm, the contempt, the victory that were 
in it ! even then it struck into me a sense of 
submission. The eyes looked full into mine ; 
those eyes and mine fastened on each other ; 
and, as I ended my task, the church clock 
chimed the half-hour; and, suddenly re- 
leased, as if from a spell, I turned round, 
expecting to see a living man standing be- 
side me. But I met only the chill air coming 
in from the loose window, and the solitude 
of the dark night. The Life had gone ; the 
wings had rushed away ; the voices had died 
out, and I was alone ; with the rats behind 
the wainscot, the owls hooting in the ivy, 
and the wind howling through the trees. 

Convinced that either some trick had been 
played me, or that some one was concealed 
in the room, I searched every corner of it. 
I lifted lids of boxes filled with the dust of 
ages and with rotting paper lying like 
bleaching skin. I took down the chimney- 
board, and soot and ashes flew up in clouds. 
I opened dim old closets, where all manner 
of foul insects had made their homes, and 
where daylight had not entered for genera- 
tions ; but I found nothing. Satisfied that 


49 


NINE NSW STORIES BY 

nothing human was in the room, and that 
no one could have been there to-night, nor 
for many months, if not years, and still 
nerved to a state of desperate courage, I 
went back to the drawing-room. But, as I 
left that room I felt that something flowed 
out with me ; and, all through the long pas- 
sages, I retained the sensation that this 
something was behind me. My steps were 
heavy, the consciousness of pursuit having 
paralysed not quickened me; for I knew 
that when I left that haunted room I had not 
left it alone. As I opened the drawing-room 
door, the blazing fire and the strong lamp- 
light bursting out upon me with a peculiar 
expression of cheerfulness and welcome, I 
heard a laugh close at my elbow, and felt a 
hot blast across my neck. I started back, 
but the laugh died away, and all I saw were 
two points of light, fiery and flaming, that 
somehow fashioned themselves into eyes be- 
neath their heavy brows, and looked at me 
meaningly through the darkness. 

They all wanted to know what I had seen ; 
but I refused to say a word ; not liking to 
tell a falsehood then, and not liking to ex- 

f ose myself to ridicule. For I felt that what 
had seen was true, and that no sophistry 
and no argument, no reasoning and no ridi- 
cule, could skake my belief in it. My sweet 
Lucy came up to me, seeing me look so pale 
and wild, threw her arms around my neck, 
and leaned forward to kiss me. As she bent 
her head, I felt the same warm blast rush 
over my lips, and my sister, cried, “ Why, 
Lizzie, your lips burn like fire 1^^ 

And so they did, and for long after. The 
Presence was with me still, never leaving 
me day nor night : by my pillow, its whisper- 
ing voice often waking me from wild dreams ; 
by my side in the broad sunlight ; by my 
side in the still moonlight: never absent, 
busy at my brain, busy at my heart — a form 
ever banded to me. It flitted like a cold 
cloud between my sweet sister^s eyes and 
mine, and dimmed them so that I could 
scarcely see their beauty. It drowned my 
father’s voice, and his words fell confused 
and indistinct. 

Not long after, a stranger came into our 
neighborhood. He bought Green Howe, a 
deserted old property by the river side, 
where no one had lived for many, many 
years ; not since the young bride, Mrs. 
Braithwaite, had been found in the river 
one morning, entangled among the dank 
weeds and dripping alders, strangled and 
drowned, and her husband dead — none knew 
how — lying by the chapel door. The place 
had had a bad name ever since, and no one 
would live there. However, it was said that 
a stranger, who had been long in the East, 
a Mr. Felix, had now bought it, and that he 
was coming to reside there. And, true 
enough, one day the whole of our little town 
of Thornhill was in a state of excitement ; 
4 


THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 

for a traveling carriage and four, followed 
by another full of servants — Hindoos, or 
Lascars, or Negroes ; dark-colored, strange- 
looking people — passed through, and Mr, 
Felix took possession of Green Howe. 

My father called on him after a time ; and 
I, as the mistress of the house, went with 
him. Green Howe had been changed, as if 
by magic, and we both said so together, as 
we entered the iron gates that led up the 
broad walk. The ruined garden was one 
mass of plants, fresh and green, many of 
them quite new to me ; and the shrubbery, 
which had been a wilderness, was restored 
to order. The house looked larger than be- 
fore, now that it was so beautifully deco- 
rated ; and the broken trellis-work, which 
used to hang dangling among the ivy, was 
matted with creeping roses, and jasmine, 
which left on me the impression of having 
been in flower, which was impossible. It 
was a fairy palace ; and we could scarcely 
believe that this was the deserted, ill-omened 
Green Howe. The foreign servants, too, in 
Eastern dresses, covered with rings, and 
necklaces, and ear rings, the foreign smells 
of sandal-wood, and camphor, and musk ; the 
curtains that hung everywhere in plade of 
doors, some of velvet, and some of cloth of 
gold ; the air of luxury, such as I, a simple 
country girl, had never seen before, made 
such a powerful impression on me that I felt 
as if carried away to some unknown region. 
As we entered, Mr. Felix came to meet us ; 
and, drawing aside a heavy curtain that 
seemed all of gold and fire — for the flame- 
colored flowers danced and quivered on the 
gold — he led us into an inner room, where 
the darkened light, the atmosphere heavy 
with perfumes, the statues, the birds like 
living jewels, the magnificence of stuffs, and 
the luxuriousness of arrangement overpow- 
ered me. I felt as if I had sunk into a 
lethargy in which I heard only the rich 
voice, and saw only the form of our stranger 
host. 

He was certainly very handsome; tall, 
dark, yet pale as marble ; his very lips were 
pale ; with eyes that were extremely bright, 
but which had an expression behind them 
that subdued me. His manners were grace- 
ful. He was very cordial to us, and made 
us stay a long time, taking us through his 
grounds to see his improvements, and point- 
ing out here and there further alterations to 
be made, all with such a disregard for local 
difficulties, and for cost, that, had he been 
one of the princes of the genii he could not 
have talked more royally. He was more 
than merely attentive to me ; speaking to me 
often and in a lower voice, bending down 
near to me, and looking at me with eyes that 
thrilled through every nerve and fibre. I 
saw that my father was uneasy ; and when 
we left, I asked him how he liked our new 
neighbor. He said, “Not much, Lizzie,’-’ 


60 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


■with a grave and almost displeased look, as 
if he had probed the weakness I was scarcely 
conscious of myself. I thougiit at the time 
that he was harsh. 

However, as there was nothing positively 
to object to in Mr. Felix, my father’s impulse 
of distrust could not well be indulged with- 
out rudeness ; and my dear father was too 
thoroughly a gentleman ever to be rude even 
to his enemy. We therefore saw a great 
deal of the stranger, who established himself, 
in our house on the most familiar footing, 
and forced on my father and Lucy an inti- 
macy they both disliked but could not avoid. 
For it was forced with such consummate skill 
and tact, that there was nothing which the 
most rigid could object to. 

I gradually became an altered being under 
his influence. In one thing only a happier 
— in the loss of the voice and the form which 
had haunted rae. Since I had known Felix 
this terror had gone. The reality had ab- 
sorbed the shadow. But in nothing else 
was this sirange man’s influence over me 
beneficial. I remember that I used to hate 
myself for my excessive irritability of tem- 
per when I was away from him. Everything 
at home displeased me. Everything seemed 
so small and mean, and old and poor after 
the lordly glory of that house ; and the very 
caresses of my family and the olden school- 
day friends were irksome and hateful to me. 
All except my Lucy lost its charm ; and to 
her I was faithful as ever ; to her I never 
changed. But her influence seemed to war 
with his wonderfully. When with him I 
felt borne away in a torrent. His words fell 
upon me mysterious and thrilling, and he 
ave me fleeting glimpses into worlds which 
ad never opened themselves to me before ; 
glimpses seen and gone like the Arabian 
gardens. 

When I came back to my sweet sister, her 
pure eyes and the holy light that lay in 
them, her gentle voice speaking of the sacred 
things of heaven and the earnest things of 
life, seemed to me like a former existence : 
a state I had lived in years ago. But this 
divided influence nearly killed me ; it seemed 
to part my very soul and wrench my being 
in twain ; and this more than all the rest, 
made me sad beyond anything people be- 
lieved possible in one so gay and reckless as 
I had been. 

My father’s dislike to Felix increased 
daily ; and Lucy, who had never been known 
to use a harsh word in her life, from the 
first refused to believe a thought of good in 
him, or to allow him one single claim to 
praise. She used to cling to me in a wild, 
beseeching way, and entreat me with pray- 
ers, such as a mother might have poured out 
before an erring child, to stop in time, and 
to return to those who loved me. “For 
your soul is lost from among us, Lizzie,” 
she used to say ; “ and nothing but a frame 


remains of the full life of love you once 
gave us I” But one word, one look, from 
Felix was enough to make me forget^ every 
tear and every prayer of her who, until now, 
had been my idol and my law. 

At last my dear father commanded me 
not to see Felix again. I felt as if I should 
have died. In vain I wept and prayed. In 
vain I gave full license to my thoughts, and 
sufiered words to pour from my lips which 
ought never to have crept into my heart. In 
vain ; my father was inexorable. • 

I was in the drawing-room. Suddenly, 
noiselessly, Felix was beside me. He had 
not entered by the door which was directly 
in front of me ; and the window was closed. 
I never could understand this sudden ap- 
pearance ; for I am certain that he had not 
been concealed. 

“ Your father has spoken of me, Lizzie ?” 
he said, with a singular smile. I was silent. 

“ And has forbidden you to see me 
again?” he continued. 

“ Yes,” I answered impelled to speak by 
something stronger than my will. 

“ And you intend to obey him ?” 

“ No,” I said again, in the same manner, 
as if I had been talking in a dream. 

He smiled again. Who was he so like when 
he smiled ? I could not remember, and yet 
I knew that he was like some one I had seen 
— a face that hovered outside my memory, 
on the horizon, and never floated near 
enough to be distinctly realized. 

“ You are right, Lizzie,” he then said ; 
“ there are ties which are stronger than 
a father’s commands; ties which no man 
has the right, and no man has the power to 
break. Meet me to-morrow at noon in the 
Low Lane ; we will speak further.” 

He did not say this in any supplicating, 
nor in any loving manner ; it was simply a 
command, unaccompanied by one tender 
word or look. He had never said he loved 
me — never ; it seemed to be too well under- 
stood between us to need assurances. 

I answered, “yes, ’’burying my face in 
my hands, in shame at this my first act of 
disobedience to my father; and when I 
raised my head, he was gone. Gone as he 
had entered, without a footfall sounding 
ever so lightly. 

I met him the next day, and it was not the 
only time that I did so. Day after day 
I stole at his command from the house, 
to walk with him in the Low Lane — the 
lane which the country people said was 
haunted, and which was consequently al- 
ways deserted. And there we used to walk 
or sit under the blighted elm tree for hours ; 
he talking, but I not understanding all he 
said : for there was a tone of grandeur and 
of mystery in his words, that overpowered 
without enlightening me, and that left my 
spirit dazzled rather than convinced. I 
bad to give reas ns at home for my long 


51 


NINE NEW STORIES BY 

absences, and he bade me say that I had 
been with old Dame Todd, the blind widow 
of Thornhill- Rise, and that I had been 
reading the Bible to her. And I obeyed, 
although, while I said it, I felt Lucy’s eyes 
fixed plaintively on mine, and heard her 
murmur a prayer that I might be forgiven. 

Lucy grew ill. As the flowers and the 
summer sun came on, her spirit faded more 
rapidly away. I have known since, that it 
was grief more than malady which was killing 
her. The look of nameless suffering which 
used to be in her face, has haunted me 
through life with undying sorrow. It was 
suffering that I, who ought to have rather died 
for her, had caused. But not even her illness 
stayed me. In the intervals, I nursed her 
tenderly and lovingly as before ; but for 
hours and hours I left her — all through the 
long days of summer — to walk in the Low 
Lane, and to sit in my world of poetry and 
fire. When I came back my sister was 
often weeping, and I knew that it was for me 
— I, who once would have given my life to 
save her from one hour of sorrow. Then I 
would fling myself on my knees beside her, 
•in an agony of shame and repentance, and 
promise better things of the morrow, and 
vow strong efforts against the power and 
the spell that were on me. But the morrow 
subjected me to the same unhallowed fasci- 
nation, the same faithlessness. 

At last Felix told me that I must come 
with him ; that I must leave my home, and 
take part in his life ; that I belonged to him 
and to him only, and that I could not break 
the tablet of a fate ordained ; that I was his 
destiny, and he mine, and that I must fulfil 
the law which the stars had written in the 
sky. I fought against this. I spoke of my 
father’s anger, and of my sister’s illness. I 
prayed to him for pity, not to force this on 
me, and knelt in the shadows of the autumn 
sunset to ask from him forbearance. 

I did not yield this day, nor the next, nor 
for many days. At last he conquered. 
When I said “Yes,” he kissed the scarf I 
wore round my neck. Until then he had 
never touched even my hand with his lips. 
I consented to leave my sister, who I well 
knew was dying ; I consented to leave my 
father, whose whole life had been one act of 
love and care for his children ; and to bring 
a stain on our name, unstained until then. 
I consented to leave those who loved me, all 
I loved, for a stranger. 

All was prepared; the hurrying clouds, 
lead colored, and the howling wind, the fit 
companions in nature with the evil and the 
despair of my soul. Lucy was worse to-day ; 
but though I felt going to my death in leav- 
ing her, I could not resist. Had his voice 
called me to the scaffold, I must have gone. 
It was the last day of October, and at mid- 
night when I was to leave the house. I had 
kissed my sleeping sister, who was dreaming 


THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 

in her sleep and cried, and grasped my 
hand, called aloud, “ Lizzie, Lizzie ! Come 
back !” But the spell was on me, and I left 
her ; and still her dreaming voice called out, 
ckoking with sobs, “ Not there I not there, 
Lizzie I Come back tf me !” 

I was to leave the h( use by the large, old, 
haunted room that I have spoken of before ; 
Felix waiting for me outside. And, a little 
after twelve o’clock, I opened the door to 
pass through. This time the chill, and the 
damp, and the darkness unnerved me. The 
broken mirror was in the middle of the 
room, as before, and, in passing it, I me- 
chanically raised my eyes. Then I remem- 
bered that it was Allhallow’s eve, the 
anniversary of the apparition of last year. 
As I looked, the room, which had been so 
deadly still, became filled with the sound I 
had heard before. The rushing of large, 
wings, and the crowd of whispering voices 
flowed like a river round me ; and again, 
glaring into my eyes, was the same face in 
the glass that I had seen before, the sneering 
smile, even more triumphant, the blighting 
stare of the fiery eyes, the low brow and the 
coal-black hair, and the look of mockery. 
All were there ; and all I had seen before 
and since ; for it was Felix who was gazing 
at me from the glass. When I turned to 
speak to him, the room was empty. Not a 
living creature was there ; only a low laugh, 
and the far-off voices whispering, and the 
wings. And then a hand tapped on the 
window, and the voice of Felix cried from 
outside, “ Come Lizzie, come !” 

I staggered, rather than walked, to the 
window ; and, as I was close to it — my hand 
raised to open it — there stood between me 
and it a pale figure clothed in white; her 
face more pale than the linen round it. 
Her hair hung down on her breast, and her 
blue eyes looked earnestly and mournfully 
inio mine. She was silent, and yet it seemed 
as if a volume of love and of entreaty flowed 
from her lips ; as if I heard words of death- 
less affection. It was Lucy ; standing there 
in this bitter midnight cold — giving her life 
to save me. Felix called to me again, im- 
patiently; and as he called, the figure 
turned, and beckoned me; beckoning me 
gently, lovingly, beseechingly; and then 
slowly faded away. The chime of the half- 
hour sounded ; and, I fled from the room to 
my sister. I found her lying dead on the 
floor ; her hair hanging over her breast, and 
one hand stretched out as if in supplication. 

The next day Felix disappeared; he and 
his whole retinue ; and Green Howe fell into 
ruins again. No one knew where he went, 
as no one knew from whence he came. 
And to this day I sometimes doubt whether 
or not he was a clever adventurer, who had 
heard of my father’s wealth ; and who, see- 
ing my weak and imaginative character, 
had acted on it for his own purposes. All 


52 


DICKENS’ NEW STOKIES. 


that I do know is that my sister’s spirit 
saved me from ruin ; and that she died to 
save me. She had seen and known all, and 
gave herself for my salvation down to the 
last and supreme effort she made to rescue 
me. She died at that hour of half-past 
twelve ; and at half-past twelve, as I live 
before you all, she appeared to me and re- 
called me. 

And this is the reason why I never mar- 


ried, and why I pass Allhallow’s eve in 
prayer hy my sister’s grave. I have told 
you to-night this story of mine, because I 
feel that I shall not live over another last 
night of October, but before the next white 
Christmas roses come out like winter stars 
on the earth, I shall be at peace in the grave. 
Not in the grave ; let me rather hope with 
my blessed sister in Heaven 1 


OVEE THE WAY’S STOEY 


Once upon a time, before I retired from 
mercantile pursuits and came to live oyer 
the way, I lived, for many years, in Ursine 
Lane. 

Ursine Lane is a very rich, narrow, dark, 
dirty, straggling lane in the great city of 
London (said by some to be itself as rich, as 
dark, and as dirty.) Ursine Lane leads 
from Cheapside into Thames Street, facing 
Sir John Pigg’s wharf ; but whether Ursine 
Lane be above or below Bow Church, I shall 
not tell you. Neither, whether its name be 
derived from a bear-garden,' (which was in 
great vogue in its environs in Queen Bess’s 
time,) or from an Ursuline Nunnery which 
flourished in its vicinity, before big, bad 
King Harry sent nuns to spin, or to do 
anything else they could. Ursine Lane it 
was before the great fire of London, and 
Ursine Lane it is now. 

The houses in Ursine Lane are very old, 
very inconvenient, and very dilapidated; 
and I don’t think another great fire (all the 
houses being well insured, depend upon it) 
would do the neighborhood any harm, in 
clearing the rubbishing old lane away. Num- 
ber four tumbled in, and across the road on 
to number sixteen, a few years ago ; and 
since then Ursine Lane has been provided 
with a species of roofing in the shape of 
great wooden beams to shore up its opposite 
sides. The district surveyor shakes his head 
very much at Ursine Lane, and resides as 
far from it as he can. The cats of the 
neighborhood find great delectation in the 
shoring beams, using them, in the night 
season, as rialtos and bridges, not of sighs, 
but of miauws ; but foot passengers look 
wistfully and somewhat fearfully upwards 
at the wooden defences. Yet Ursine Lane 
remains. To be sure, if you were to pull it 
down, you would have to remove the old 
church of St. Nicholas Bearcroft, where the 
bells ring every Friday night, in conformity 
with a bequest of Master Miniver Squirrell, 
furrier, obiit sixteen hundred and eighty- 


four, piously to commemorate his escape 
from the paws of a grizzly bear while travel- 
ling in the wilds of Muscovy. You would 
have to demolish the brave gilt lion and the 
brave gilt unicorn at the extremity of the 
churchwarden’s pew, who (saving their 
gender) with the clerk, the sexton, and two 
or three deaf old shopkeepers and their 
wives, are pretty nearly all the dearly be- 
loved brethren whom the Keverend Tremaine 
Popples, M. A., can gather together as a 
congregation. Worse than all, if Ursine 
Lane were to come down — the pump must 
come down, the old established, constitu- 
tional, vested, endowed pump ; built, so 
tradition runs, over a fountain blessed by 
the great St. Ursula herself. So Ursine Lane 
remains. 

At a certain period of the world’s history, 
it may have been yesterday, it may have 
been yesterday twenty years, there dwelt in 
this dismal avenue, a Beast. Everybody 
called him a Beast. He was a Manchester 
warehouseman. Now it is not at all neces- 
sary for a Manchester warehouseman — or, 
indeed, for any warehouseman — to be a beast 
or a brute, or anything disagreeable. Quite 
the contrary. For instance, next door to 
the Beast’s were the counting-houses and 
warerooms of Tapperly and Grigg, also 
Manchester warehousemen, as merry, light- 
hearted, good-humored young fellows as you 
would wish to see. Tapperly was somewhat 
of a sporting character, rode away every 
afternoon on a high-stepping brown mare, 
and lounged regularly about the entrance to 
“ Tats” whether he booked any bets or not. 
As for Grigg, he was the Coryphaeus of all 
the middle class soirees, dancing academies 
and subscription balls in London, and it 
was a moving sight to see him in his famous 
Crusader costume at a Drury Lane Bal- 
Masque. Nor was old Sir William Watch 
(of the firm of Watch, Watch and Rover, 
Manchester warehousemen) at the corner, 
who was fined so many thousand pounds for 


NINE NEW STORIES BY 

Bmuggling once upon a time, at all beastlike 
or brutish. He was a white-headed, charita- 
ble jolly old gentleman, fond of old port and 
old songs and old clerks and porters, and his 
Cheque-book was as ^en as his heart. 
Lacteal, Flewitt, and Cfompany, again, on 
the other side of the Beast's domicile, the 
great dealers in gauzes and ribbons, were 
mild, placable, pious men, the beloved of 
Clapham. But the Beast was a Beast and 
no mistake. Everybody said he was ; and 
what everybody says, must be true. His 
name was Braddlescroggs. 

Barnard Braddlescroggs. He was the 
head, the trunk and the tail of the firm. 
No Co., no son, no nephew, no brothers : 
B. Braddlescroggs glared at you from either 
door-jamb. His warerooms were extensive, 
gloomy, dark, and crowded. So were his 
counting-houses, which were mostly under- 
ground and candle-lit. He loved to keep his 
subordinates in these dark dens, where he 
could rush in upon them suddenly, and 
growl at them. You came wandering through 
these subterraneans upon wan men, pent up 
among parasols and cartons of gay ribbons ; 
upon pale lads in spectacles registering silks 
and merinos by the light of flickering, strong 
smelling tallow candles in rusty sconces. 
There was no counting-house community ; 
no desk-fellowship ; the clerks were isolated 
— dammed up in steep little pulpits, rele- 
gated behind walls of cotton goods, consign- 
ed to the inpace of - bales of tarlatan and 
barege. The Beast was everywhere. He 
rowled about continually. He lurked in 
oles and corners. He reprimanded clerks 
on staircases, and discharged porters in dark 
entries. His deep, harsh, grating voice 
could ever be heard growling during the 
hours of business, somewhere, like a sullen 
earthquake. His stern Wellington boots 
continually creaked. His numerous keys 
rattled gaoler-fashion. His very watch, 
when wound up, made a savage gnashing 
noise, as though the works were in torment. 
He was a Beast. 

Tall, square, sinewy, and muscular in 
person ; large and angular in features ; with 
a puissant, rebellious head of gray hair that 
would have defied all the brushing, comb- 
ing, and greasing of the Burlington Arcade ; 
with black bushy eyebrows nearly meeting 
on his forehead ; with a horseshoe frown be- 
tween his eyes ; with stubbly whiskers, like 
horse-hair spikes, rather indented in his 
cheekbones than growing on his cheeks; 
with a large, stiff* shirt collar and frill de- 
fending his face like cTievaux-de-frise with 
large, coarse, bony hands plunged in his 
trousers pockets ; with a great seal and rib- 
bons and the savage ticking watch I have 
mentioned, — such was Barnard Braddle- 
Bcroggs. From the ears and nostrils of such 
men you see small hairs growing, indomita^ 
ble by tweezers; signs of inflexibility of 


THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 53 

purpose, and stern virility. Their joints 
crack as they walk. His did. 

Very rich, as his father, old Simon Brad- 
dlescroggs, had been before him, B. Brad- 
dlescroggs was not an avaricious man. He 
had never been known to lend or advance a 
penny to the necessitous ; but he paid his 
clerks and servants liberal salaries. This 
was a little unaccountable in the Beast, but 
it was said they did not hate him the less. 
He gave largely to stern charities, such as 
dragged sinners to repentance, or adminis- 
tered eleemosynarv food, education and 
blows (in a progressively liberal proportion) 
to orphan children. He was a visiting jus- 
tice to strict gaols, and was supposed not to 
have quite made up his mind as to what 
system of prison discipline was the best, un- 
remitting corporal punishment, or continu- 
ous solitary confinement. He apprenticed 
boys to hard trades, or assisted them to 
emigrate to inclement climates. He was a 
member of a rigid persuasion, and one in 
high authority, and had half built a chapel 
at his own expense; but everybody said 
that few people thanked him, or were grate- 
ful to him for his generosity. He was such 
a Beast. He bit the orphan's nose off*, and 
bullied the widow. He gave alms as one 
who pelts a dog with marrow-bones, hurting 
him while he feeds him. Those in his em- 
ployment who embezzled or robbed him, 
were it of but a penny piece, he mercilessly 
prosecuted to' conviction. Everybody had 
observed it. He sued all debtors, opposed 
all insolvents, and strove to bring all bank- 
rupts within the meaning of the penal 
clauses. Everybody knew it. The mer- 
chants and brokers, his compeers, fell away 
from him on 'Change; his correspondents 
opened his hard, fierce letters with palpita- 
ting hearts ; his clerks cowered before him ; 
his maid servants passed him (when they 
had courage to pass him at all) with fear 
and trembling. The waiters at the “ Cock'' 
in Threadneedle Street, where he took a 
fiery bowl of Mulligatawney soup for lunch, 
daily, didn't like him. At his club at the 
West End he had a bow-window and a 
pile of newspapers all to himself, dined by 
himself, drank by himself, growled to him- 
self. 

There had been a Mrs. Braddlescroggs ; 
a delicate, blue-eyed little woman out of 
Devonshire, who had been Beauty to the 
Beast. Slie died early. Her husband was 
not reported to have beaten her, or starved 
her, or verbally ill-treated her, but simply 
to have frightened her to death. Everybody 
said so. She could never take those mild 
blue eyes of hers off her terrible husband, 
and died, looking at him timorously. One 
son had been born to B. B.^ at her demise. 
He grew up a pale, fair-haired, frightened 
lad, with his mother's eyes. The Beast 
had treated him (everybody was indignant 


NEW STORIES. 


64 DICKENS’ 

at it) from his earliest years with unvarying 
and consistent severity ; and at fourteen he 
was removed from the school of the rigid 
ersuasion, where he had received his 
reary commercial education, to his father’s 
rigider, drearier establishment in Ursine 
Lane. He had a department to himself 
there, and a tallow candle to himself. 

The clerks, some twelve in number, all 
dined and slept in the house. They had a 
dismal dormitory over some stables in Griz- 
zly Buildings, at the back of Ursine Lane ; 
and dined in a dingy, uncarpeted room at 
the top of the building — on one unvarying 
bill of fare of beef, mutton, and potatoes — 
plenty of it, though, for the Beast never 
stinted them ; which was remarkable in such 
a Beast. The domestic arrangements were 
superintended by a housekeeper — a tall, 
melancholy, middle-aged lady, supposed to 
have been once in afl&uent circumstances. 
She had been very good-looking, too, once, 
but had something the matter with her spine, 
and not unfrequently fell down stairs, or 
up stairs, in fits of syncope. When the Beast 
had no one else to abuse and maltreat, he 
would go up stairs and abuse Mrs. Plim- 
mets, and threaten her with dismissal and 
inevitable starvation. Business hours con- 
cluded at eight nightly, and from that hour 
to tea p. M., the clerks were permitted to 
walk where they listed — but exclusion and 
expulsion were the never failing result of a 
moment’s unpunctuality in returning home. 
The porters slept out of the house, and the 
clerks looked at them almost as superior 
beings, as men of strange experiences and 
knowledge of life — men who had been pre- 
sent at orgies prolonged beyond midnight, 
men who had remained in the galleries 
of theatres till the performances were con- 
cluded. 

Of the dozen clerks who kept the books of 
Barnard Braddlescroggs (save that grim au- 
riferous banker’s pass-book of his) and regis- 
tered his wares, I have to deal with but two. 
My business lies only with blue-eyed, pale- 
faced William Braddlescroggs, and with 
John Simcox the corresponding clerk. 

Simcox among his fellow clerks, Mr. Sim- 
cox among the porters. Jack Simcox among 
his intimates at the “ Admiral Benbow” 
near Camberwell Gate, “ you Simcox,” with 
his growling chief. A gray-haired, smiling, 
red-faced simpleton was Simcox; kind of 
heart, simple of mind, afiectionate of dispo- 
sition, confiding of nature, infirm of purpose, 
convivial of habits. He was fifty years in 
age, and fifteen in^wisdom. He had been at 
the top of the ladder once — a rich man at 
least by paternal inheritance, with a car- 
riage and horses and lands; but when he 
tumbled (which he did at five-and-twenty, 
very quickly and right to the bottom), he 
never managed to rise again. The dupe of 
every shallow knave; the victim in every 


egregious scheme ; an excellent arithmeti- 
cian, yet quite unable to put two and two 
together in a business sense; he had never 
even had strength of character to be his own 
enemy ; he had always found such a multi- 
plicity of friends ready to do the inimical 
for him. If you let him alone he would do 
well enough. He would not lose his money 
till you cheated him out of it ; he would not 
get drunk himself, but would allow you to 
make him so, with the most charming wil- 
lingness and equanimity. There are many 
Simcoxes in the world, and more rogues 
always ready to prey upon them ; yet though 
IJshould like to hang the rogues, I should not 
like to see the breed of Simcox quite extinct. 

John Simcox had a salary of one hundred 
and twenty pounds a year. If I were writing 
fiction instead of sober (though veiled) truth, 
I should picture him to you as a victim with 
some two score of sovereigns per annum. 
No ; he had a hundred and twenty of those 
yellow tokens annually, for the Beast never 
stinted in this respect either, which was 
again remarkable in such a Beast. One 
hundred and twenty golden sovereigns an- 
nually, had John Simcox; and they were 
of about as much use to him as one hundred 
and twenty penny pieces. When a man has 
a quarter’s salary amounting to twenty- 
seven pounds, receivable next Thursday, 
and out of that has a score of three pounds 
due at the “ Admiral Benbow,” and has 
promised to (and will) lend ten pounds to a 
friend, and has borrowed five more of an- 
other friend himself, which he means to 
pay ; and has besides his little rent to meet, 
and his little butcher and his little grocer 
and his little tailor, it is not very difficult to 
imagine how the man may be considerably 
embarrassed in satisfying all these demands 
out of the capital. But, when the adminis- 
trator of the capital happens to be (as Sim- 
cox was) a man without the slightest com- 
mand of himself or his money, you will have 
no difficulty in forming a conviction that the 
end of Simcox’s quarter-days were worse 
than their commencement. 

Nor will you be surprised that “ execu- 
tions” in Simcox’s little house in Carolina- 
terrace, Albany-road, Camberwell, were of 
frequent occurrence ; that writs against him 
were always “out,” and the brokers always 
“ in.” That he w^as as well known in the 
county court as the judge. That orders for 
payment were always coming due and never 
being paid. His creditors never arrested 
him, however. If they did so, they knew he 
would lose his situation ; so. the poor man 
went on from week to week, and from month 
to month, borrowing here and borrowing 
there, obtaining small advances from loan 
societies held at public-houses, robbing 
Peter to pay Paul— always in a muddle, in 
short ; but still smoking his nightly pipes, 
and drinking his nightly glasses, and sing- 


65 


NINE NEW STORIES BY 

ing his nightly songs ; the latter with im- 
mense applause at the “ Admiral Benhow/' 

I don’t think Simcox’s worldly position 
was at all improved by his having married 
^in very early life, and direct from the finish- 
ing establishment of the Misses Gimp, at 
Hammersmith) a young lady highly accom- 
plished in the useful and productive arts of 
tambourwork and Poonah painting ; but of 
all domestic or household duties consider- 
ably more ignorant than a Zooloo Kaffir. 
When Simcox had run through his money, 
an operation he performed with astonishing 
celerity, Mrs. Simcox, finding- herself with 
three daughters of tender age and a ruined 
husband, took refuge in a flood of tears ; 
subsequently met the crisis of misfortune 
with a nervous fever ; and ultim,ately sub- 
sided into permanent ill. health, curl papers, 
and shoes down at heel. 

When the events took place herein narra- 
ted, the three daughters of Mr. and Mrs. 
Simcox were all grown up. Madeline, aged 
twenty-two, was a young lady of surprising 
altitude, with shoulders of great breadth and 
sharpness of outline, with very large black 
eyes and very large black ringlets, attributes 
of which she was consciously proud, but 
with a nose approaching to — what shall I 
say? — the snub. Chemists’ assistants had 
addressed acrostics to her ; and the young 
man at the circulating library was supposed 
to be madly in love with her. Helena, 
daughter number two, aged twenty, was 
also tall, had also black eyes, black ringlets, 
white resplendent shoulders, was the be- 
loved of apothecaries, and the Laura of 
Petrarchs in the linen drapery-line. These 
young ladies were both acknowledged, re- 
cognized, established as beauties in the 
Camberwellian district. They dressed, some- 
how, in the brightest and most variegated 
colors ; they had, somehow, the prettiest of 
bonnets, the tightest of gloves, the neatest 
of kid boots. Their sabb^atical entrance to 
the parish church always created a sensa- 
tion. The chemist’s assistant kissed his 
hand as they passed ; the young man at the 
circulating liWry laid down his book and 
sighed ; passing young ladies envied and 
disparaged ; passing young gentlemen ad- 
mired and aspired ; yet, some how. Miss 
Madeline would be twenty-three next birth- 
day, and Miss Helena twenty-one, and no 
swain had yet declared himself in explicit 
terms ; no one had said, “ I have a hundred 
a year with a prospect of an advance : take 
it, my heart, and hand.”^ Old Muggers, 
indeed, the tailor of Acacia Cottages, the 
friend, creditor, and boon companion of Sim- 
cox, had intimated, in his cups, at the 
“ Admiral Benbow,” his willingness to mar- 
ry either of the young ladies ; but his rua- 
trimonial proposals generally vanished with 
his inebriety ; and he was besides known to 
be a dreadfully wicked old man, addicted to 


THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 

drinking, smoking, and snuff-taking. As a 
climax of villany, he was supposed to have 
two wives already, alive and resident in 
different parts of the provinces. 

And daughter number three — have I foi> 
gotten her? Not by any means. Was she 
a beauty ? No. In the opinion of her sis- 
ters, Camberwell, and of the chemist’s as- 
sistant, she was not a beauty. She had 
dark eyes ; but they were neither brilliant 
nor piercing. She had dark hair ; but wore 
it in no long or resplendent ringlets. She 
was an ordinary girl “ a plain little thing’' 
(according to the Camberwell opinion) ; 
there was “ nothing about her” in the eyes 
of the chemist’s assistant. 

This young person (Bessy by name), from 
the earliest periods of authentic record to 
the mature age of sixteen, had occupied, in 
.the Simcox household, an analogous position 
to that of the celebrated Cinderella. She 
did not exactly sit in the chimney corner 
among the ashes; but she lighted the fire, 
waited upon, dressed, and was otherwise the 
humble and willing drudge of her accom- 
plished relatives. She did not exactly dress 
in rags ; but she trotted about the house and 
neighborhood in a shabby brown merino 
frock, which she had wofully outgrown, a 
lamentable old beaver bonnet, and a faded 
Paisley shawl which held a sort of middle 
rank in appearance, between a duster and a 
pocket-handkerchief well to do in the world. 
As a child, she was punished for the things 
she did not do, and doubly punished for 
those she did do. As a girl, she ran of er- 
rands, fetched the beer, lighted the fire (as I 
have said), read the sentimental novels to 
mamma as she lay upon the sofa, and ac- 
companied her sisters on the pianoforte 
when they rehearsed those famous songs 
and duets with which they did terrific exe- 
cution in the Camberwell circles. 

Honest Simcox, like a stupid, undiscern- 
ing, shiftless man as he was, did not enter- 
tain the domestic or Camberwell opinion 
concerning Bessy. He maintained that she 
had more sense in her little finger than her 
sisters put together '(with his wife into the 
bargain, the honest fellow thought, I dare 
swear, though he did not dare to say so). 
He called her his little darling, his little 
Mentor, his willing, patient Betsy-petsy, 
with other foolish and weak-minded ex- 
pressions of endearment. What else could 
you expect of a red-nosed warehouseman’s 
clerk who fuddled himself nightly at the 
“Admiral Benbow!” Profoundly submis- 
sive to his wife in most instances, he had 
frequently presumed, during Bessy’s nonage, 
to differ from Mrs. Simcox as to the amount 
of whipping meted out to his youngest 
daughter for childish delinquencies, and 
had once even dared to interfere when his 
lady undertook to inflict that punishment 
for a fault the child had never committed. 


66 


DICKENS’ NEW STOKIES. 


and to ** stay justice in its mid career.” 
So in process of time the alliance between 
the snubbed, neglected little girl and her 
father became of so close a nature as to be 
almost recognised and permitted by the 
rest of the family. Bessy was reckoned 
among the rest of the low company with 
whom the degraded Simcox chose to asso- 
ciate. She was allowed to' pull off his 
muddy boots, to prepare his dinner, to fill 
his pipe and mix his grog when he muddled 
himself at home ; and to lead him home, 
shambling, from the “Admiral Benbow,” 
when he performed that operation abroad. 
Notably of late times she had been commis- 
sioned to fetch her papa home from Ursine 
Lane on the eventful quarter-day ; and the 
meek, guiding-help of Bessy had often 
saved that infirm old fellow from many 
a dark and dangerous pitfall. The child 
would wait patiently outside the doors of 
public-houses while her father boozed with- 
in ; she would lead him away gently but 
firmly from his riotous companions, or, 
meeting them and taking them aside, would 
plead passionately, tearfully, that they 
would not make papa tipsy to-night. Some 
of the disreputable personages with whom 
she was brought into such strange contact 
were quite subdued and abashed by her 
earnest, artless looks and speech. Jack 
Flooks himself, formerly of the Stock Ex- 
change, now principally of the bar of the 
“ Bag o’Nails,” the very worst, most dissi- 
pated and most reckless of Simcox's asso- 
ciates, forebore drinking with Bessy^s fa- 
ther for one whole week, and actually re- 
turned, in a private and mysterious manner, 
to Bessy, two half-crowns he had borrowed 
of him ! So useful was this filial surveil- 
lance found to be by the other branches of 
his family that the quarter-day functions 
of our plain little Bessy were gradually 
extended, and became next of weekly and 
afterwards of diurnal occurrence. It was 
good to see this girl arrayed in the forlorn 
beaver bonnet and the faded Paisley shawl, 
with her mild, beaming, ordinary, little 
countenance, arrive at about a quarter to 
eight, at the Thames Street corner of Ursine 
Lane, and there wait patiently until her 
father's official duties were over. She be-- 
came almost as well known in the neighbor- 
hood as St. Nicholas Bearward, or as the 
famous sanctified pump itself. The fellow- 
ship porters from Sir John Pigg's wharf 
touched their caps to her; the majestic 
beadle of St. Nicholas (a cuuning man, 
omnipotent over the fire escape, king of the 
keys of the engine-house, and supposed to 
know where the fire-plug was, much better 
than the turncock) spoke her kindly; all 
the clerks in Braddlescrogg’s house knew 
her, nodded to her, smiled at her, and pri- 
vately expressed their mutual opinions as 
to what a beast Braddlescroggs was, not to 


ask that dear little girl in, and let her rest 
herself, or sit by the fire in winter. The 
pot-boy of the “ Bear and Bagged Staff,” in 
his evening excursions with the supper 
beer, grew quite enamored (in his silent, 
sheepish fashion) of this affectionate daugh- 
ter, and would, I dare say, had he dared, 
have offered her refreshment from his beer- 
can; nay, even the majestic wealthy Mr. 
Drum, the wholesale grocer and provision 
merchant, who stood all day with his hands 
in his pockets, under his own gibbet-like 
crane, a very Jack Ketch of West India 
produce, had addressed cheering and be- 
nevolent words to her from the depths of 
his double chin; had conferred figs upon 
her; had pressed her to enter his saccha- 
rine smelling warehouse, and rest herself 
upon a barrel of prime navy mess beef. 

When the Beast of Ursine Lane met Bessy 
Simcox, he either scowled at her, or made 
her sarcastic bows, and asked her at what 
pot-house her father was about to get drunk 
that night, and whether he had taught her to 
drink gin, too ? Sometimes he growled forth 
his determination to have no “ bits of girls” 
hanging about his “ place :” sometimes ho 
told her she would not have to come many 
times more, for that he was determined on 
discharging that “drunken old dog,” her 
papa. In the majority of instances, how- 
ever, he passed her without any other notice 
than a scowl, and a savage rattle of the 
keys and silver in his pock^ets. The little 
maiden trembled fearfully when she saw 
him, and had quiet fits of weeping (in 
which a corner of the Paisley shawl was 
brought into frequent requisition) over 
against the pump, when he had spoken to 
her. There was a lad called William Brad- 
dlescroggs, with blue eyes and fair hair, who 
blushed very violently whenever he saw 
Bessy, and had once been bold enough to 
tell her that it was a fine evening. In this 
flagrant crime he was then and there detected 
by his father, who drove him back into the 
warehouse. 

“ As this is quarter-day, my Bessy,” was 
the remark of John Simcox to his daughter, 
one twenty-eighth of March, “ as this is 
quarter-day, I think, my child, that I will 
take one glass of ale.” 

It was about half-past eight, I think, and 
Bessy and her papa were traversing the 
large thoroughfare known as the New Kent 
Bead. There is in that vicinity, as you are 
aware, that stunning Champagne Ale House, 
known as the “ Leather Bottle.” Into that 
stunning ale house did John Simcox enter, 
leaving his little Bessy outside, with fifteen 
pounds, the balance of what he had already 
expended of his quarter's salary. The night 
was very lowering, and rain appeared to be 
imminent. It came down, presently, in big, 
pattering drops, but John had f romised not 
to be long. 


NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 37 


^ Why should I tell, in exienso, the humilia- 
ting tale of how John Simcox got tipsy that 
night ? How he forced all the money, pound 
by pound, from his little daughter? How, 
when after immense labor and trouble, he 
had at last been brought to his own street 
door, he suddenly started off at an unknown 
tangent (running hard and straight) and 
disappeared. How his daughter wandered 
about, weeping, in the pouring rain, seeking 
him ; how, at two o’clock in the morning, a 
doleful party arrived at a little house in 
Camberwell — a very moist policeman, a 
weeping, shivering, drenched little girl over 
whom the municipal had in pity thrown his 
oilskin cape, and a penniless, hatless, drunk- 
en man, all covered with mud, utterly sod- 
den, wretched, and degraded. Drop the 
curtain, for pity’s sake. 

The first impulse of Mrs. Simcox, after 
duly loading her besotted husband with re- 
proaches, was to beat Bessy. The anger of 
this matron, generally so gently languid, 
was something fearful to view. An enraged 
sheep is frantic. She was frustrated, how- 
ever, in her benevolent intention, first by 
the policeman, afterwards by Bessy herself, 
who, wet, fatigued, and miserable (but in 
an artful and designing manner, no doubt), 
first contrived to faint away, and next day 
chose to fall into a high fever. 

In this fever — in the access thereof — she 
lay three long weeks. In a lamentable state 
of languor she lay many long weeks more. 
The brokers were in again. The parlor 
carpet was taken up and sent to the pawn- 
broker’s. There were no invalid comforts in 
the house ; no broth, nor chicken to make 
it, no arrowroot, no sago, no port wine, 
no anything to speak of, that was really 
wanted. 

Stay, I am wrong. There were plenty of 
doctors ; there was plenty of doctor’s stuff. 
The chemists, apothecaries, and medical 
practitioners of the neighborhood, treated 
the Simcox family, and the little sick daugh- 
ter, in particular, in a liberal and considerate 
manner. Not one charged a penny, and all 
were unremitting in attention. Kind-hearted 
Mr. Sphoon, of Walworth, sent in — so to 
speak — a hamper of quinine. Young Tuck- 
ett, close by, who had just passed the Hall 
and College, and opened his shop, offered to 
do anything for Bessy. He would have 
dissected her, even, I am sure. Great Doc- 
tor Bibby came from Camberwell Grove, in 
bis own carriage, with his own footman with 
the black worsted tags on his shoulder, and 
majestically ordered change of air, and red 
Port wine for Bessy Simcox. A majestic 
man was Dr. Bibby, and a portly, and a 
deep-voiced and a rich. His boots creaked, 
and his carriage-springs^ oscillated ; but he 
left a sovereign on the Simcox mantlepiece, 
for all that. 

So there was something of those things 


needful in the little house at CamberwelL 
There was, besides, a certain nurse, active, 
devoted, patient, soothing, and gentle. Not 
Mrs. Simcox, who still lay on the sofa, now 
reading the sentimental novels, now moan- 
ing over the family difficulties. Not the 
Misses Simcox, who, though they did tend 
their sister, did it very fretfully and cross- 
grainedly, and unanimously declared that 
the child made herself out to be a great deal 
worse than she really was. This nurse had 
rather a red nose, and a tremulous hand. 
He came home earlier from the City now ; 
but he never stopped at the stunning Cham- 
pagne Ale House. He had not been to the 
“ Admiral Benbow” for seven weeks. He 
sat by his daughter’s pillow ; he read to her ; 
he carried her in his arms like a child as she 
was ; he wept over the injury he had done 
her ; he promised, and meant, and prayed 
for, amendment. 

But what were the attentions of the doc- 
tors, the hamper of quinine, the sovereign 
on the mantlepiece, even, after all ? They 
were but drops in the great muddled ocean 
of the Simcox embarrassments. A sove- 
reign would not take Bessy to Malvern or 
Ventnor ; the quinine would not give her 
red Port wine and change of air. The nurse 
grew desperate. There was no money to be 
borrowed, none to be obtained from the 
pawnbroker, none to be received until next 
quarter-day — before which, another month 
must elapse. Should he attempt to obtain a 
small advance of money from the Beast him- 
self— the terrible Braddlescroggs ? Should 
he offer him two hundred per cent, interest ; 
should he fall down on his knees before him ; 
should he write him a supplicatory letter ; 
should he ? 

One evening, Simcox came home from the 
office, with many smiles upon his face. He 
had borrowed the money after many diffi- 
culties, from the chief clerk. Ten pounds. 
He would have to pay very heavy interest 
for it, but never mind. Mrs. Simcox should 
take Bessy to Ventnor for a fortnight or 
three weeks. Quarter day would soon come 
round. Soon come round. Now and then 
his family remarked, that the many smiles 
dropped from their papa’s countenance like 
a mask, and that, underneath he wore a look 
rather haggard, rather weary, rather terri- 
ble ; but then, you see, he would have to pay 
such a heavy interest for the ten pounds. 
Mrs. Simcox was delighted at the prospect 
of her country trip ; poor Bessy smiled and 
thanked her papa ; and the two Miss Sim- 
coxes, who had their own private conviction 
that an excursion to the sea-side was the 
very thing for them ; to air their beauty as 
it were, and not for that designing bit of a 
thing, Bessy, with her pale face,^ the two 
Miss Siracoxes, I say, went to bed in a huff. 

To the pleasant Island of Wight in the 
British Channel, and the county of Hamp- 


68 


DICKENS' NEW STOEIES. 


shire, did the little convalescent from Cam- 
berwell and her parent proceed. Bessy 
gathered shells and sea weed, and bought 
sand pictures on cardboard by the Under- 
cliff, and sand in bottles, and saw the don- 
key at Carisbroke Castle, and wondered at 
Little St. Lawrence Church, and the magni- 
ficent yachting dandies at Cowes and Ryde, 
until her pale face grew quite rosy, and her 
dark eyes had something of a sparkle in 
them. Her mamma lay on the sofa as 
usual, exhausted the stock of sentimental 
novels in the Ventnor circulating library, 
varying these home occupations occasionally 
by taking exercise in a wheel-chair, and 
“ nagging'^ at Bessy. The pair came back 
to London together, and were at the little 
mansion at Camberwell about a week before 
quarter-day. The peccant Simcox had been 
exemplarily abstemious during their ab- 
sence ; but his daughters had not been able 
to avoid remarking that he was silent, re- 
served, and anxious looking. You see he 
had to pay such heavy interest for the ten 
pounds he had borrowed of the chief clerk. 

Three days before quarter-day, it was ten 
minutes to eight p. m., and Bessy Simcox 
was waiting for her father. She was confi- 
dent, hopeful, cheerful now; she thanked 
God for her illness and the change it had 
wrought in her dear papa. Ten minutes to 
eight, and a hot summer's evening. She 
was watching the lamp-lighter going round 
with his ladder and his little glimmering 
lantern, when she was accosted by one of 
Mr. Braddlescrogg's porters. He was an 
ugly, forbidding man, with a vicious-looking 
fur cap (such as porters of workhouses and 
wicked skippers of colliers wear), and had 
never before saluted or spoken to her. She 
began to tremble violently when John Ma- 
lingerer (a special favorite of the Beast's, if 
he could have favored any one, and sup- 
posed to be a porter after his own heart), 
addressed her. 

“ Hi I" said the porter, “ you're wanted," 

“Me — wanted?" Where? By whom?" 
stammered Bessy. 

“ Counting house — Governor — Bisness," 
replied John Malingerer, in short growling 
periods. 

Bessy followed him, still trembling. The 
porter walked before her, looming like the 
enius of Misfortune. He led her through 
ingy wareroom after wareroom, counting 
house after counting house, where the clerks 
all were silent and subdued. He led her at 
last into a dingy sanctum, dimly lighted by 
one shaded lamp. In this safe there were 
piles of dingy papers and more dingy led- 
gers ; with great piles of accounts on hooks 
in the wall, with their long iron necks and 
white bodies, like ghosts of dead bills who 
had hanged themselves; a huge iron safe 
throwing hideous shadows against the wall, 
ftud three silent men. 


That is to say : 

John Simcox, white, trembling and with 
wild eyes. 

The Beast, neither more nor less a Beast 
than he usually was. 

A tall man with a very sharp shirt collar, 
great coat, a black stock ; very thin iron 
gray hair ; a face which looked as if it had 
once been full of wrinkles and furrows which 
had been half ironed out ; very peculiar and 
very heavy boots, brown Berlin gloves, and 
a demeanor which confirmed you immedi- 
ately in a conviction that were you to strike 
at him violently with a sledge hammer, hia 
frame would give forth in response no fleshy 
“ thud," but a hard metallic ring. 

The Beast was standing up : his back 
against a tall desk on spectral legs, his 
hands in his pockets. So also, standing, in 
a corner, was Simcox. So also, not exactly 
anywhere but somewhere, somehow, and 
about Simcox, and about Bessy, and par- 
ticularly about the door, and the iron safe, 
in which he seemed to take absorbing in- 
terest, was the tall man in the peculiar 
boots. 

“ Come here, my girl," said the grating 
voice of Barnard Braddlescroggs the Beast 

My girl came there, to the foot of a table, 
as she was desired. She heard the grating 
voice ; she heard, much louder, the beating 
of her own heart ; she heard, loudest of all, 
a dreadful voice crying within her, crying 
over and over again that papa had borrowed 
ten pounds, and that he would have to pay 
very heavy interest for it, and that quarter 
day would soon come round, soon come 
round. 

“ This person's name is Lurcher," pur- 
sued the Beast. 

The person coughed. The cough struck 
on the girl's heart like a knell. One. 

“ He is an officer." 

An officer of what? Of the Household 
Brigade ; of the yeomanry cavalry ; of the 
Sheriff of Middlesex's battalion, a custom 
house officer, a naval officer, a relieving 
officer ? But Bessy knew in a moment. She 
might have known it at first from the pecu- 
liar boots the officer wore — boots such as no 
other officer, or man, or woman can wear. ' 
But her own heart told her. It said plainly ; 

“ This is a police officer, and he has come to 
take your father into custody." 

It was all told directly. Oh Bessy, Bessy 1 
The ten pounds borrowed from the chief 
clerk, for which he would have to pay such 
heavy interest. The ten pounds were bor- 
rowed from the Petty Cash. The miserable 
Simcox's account was fifteen pounds defi- 
cient ; he had promised to refund the money 
on quarter day ; he had begged and prayed 
for time; the Beast was inexorable, and 
Lurcher, the officer, was there to take him 
to prison for embezzlement. 

“You daughter of this man," said th« 


50 


NINE NEW STORIES BY 

Beast, “ you must go home without him. 
You tell his wife and the rest of his people, 
that I have locked him up, and that Til 
transport him, for robbery.^^ 

“ Robbery, no, sir,’^ cried poor Simcox 
from the corner. “Before God, no I It was 
only for 

“ Silence I” said the Beast. “ Til prose- 
I cute you, Pll transport you, Fll hang you. 
By G — , I'll reform you, somehow.'' “ Girl," 
he continued, turning to Bessy. “ Go home. 
Stop ! I'll send a clerk with you to see if 
there are any of my goods at home. I dare 
say there are, and you’ll move 'em to-night. 
You wont though. I'll have a search war- 
rant. I'll put you all in gaol. I'll trans- 
port you all. Come here, one of you fellows 
in the office" (this with a roar) “ and go 
with this girl to Camberwell. Lurcher, take 
the rascal away." 

What was poor Bessy to do ? What could 
she do but fall down on her knees, clasping 
. those stern knees before her ? What could 
she do, but amid sobs and broken articula- 
tion say that it was all her fault ? That it 
was for her, her dear papa had taken the 
money. That for her use it had been spent. 
What could she do but implore the Beast, 
for the love of heaven, for the love of his 
own son, for the love of his dead father and 
mother, to spare the object of his wrath, to 
send her to prison, to take all they had, to 
show them mercy, as he hoped mercy to be 
shown to him hereafter. 

She did all this and more. It was good, 
though pitiful, to see the child on her knees 
in her mean dress, with her streaming eyes, 
and her poor hair all hanging about her 
eyes, and to hear her artless, yet passionate 
supplications. The Beast moved nor muscle 
nor face; but it is upon record that Mr. 
Lurcher, after creaking about on the pecu- 
liar boots for some seconds, turned aside in- 
to the shadow of the iron safe, and blew his 
nose. 

“ Lurcher," observed the Beast, “ wait a 
moment before I give this man into your 
^ charge." 

Mr. Lurcher bent some portion of his 
body between his occiput and his spine, 
and, considering himself temporarily re- 
lieved from the custody of his prisoner, 
threw the whole force of his^ contemplative 
energies into the iron safe, in which, as a 
subject, he appeared immediately to bury 
himself. 

“ Come here 1" was the monosyllabic com- 
mand of the Beast : addressed both to father 
and daughter. He led them into yet an 
inner sanctum, a sort of cupboard, full of 
books and papers, where there was a dread- 
ful screw copying press, like an instrument 
of torture in the Inquisition. 

“ I will spare your father, child, and re- 
tain him in his situation," continued the 
Beast, without ever taking his hands from 


THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 

his pockets, or altering an inflection of his 
voice, “ on these, and these conditions only. 
My housekeeper is old and blind, and I 
shall soon turn her adrift, and let her go to 
the workhouse — everybody says so, I be- 
lieve. The short time she will remain, she 
will be able to instruct you in as much as I 
shall require of you. You will have to keep 
this house for me and my clerks, and you 
must never quit it save once in six weeks, 
for six hours at a time ; and I expect you to 
adhere to this engagement for two years. 
All communication between you and your 
family, save during your hours of liberty, I 
strictly prohibit. You will have twenty 
pounds a year as wages, half of which can 
go to augment your father's salary. At the 
same time I shall require from him a writ- 
ten acknowledgment that he has embezzled 
my monies; and if you quit my service I 
shall use it against him, ruin him, and im- 
prison him. Make up your mind quickly, 
for the policeman is waiting." 

What was poor Bessy to do? To part 
from her dear father, never to see him save 
at intervals, and then only for a short time ; 
to know that he was in the same house, and 
not be able to run and embrace him. All 
this was hard, very hard, but what would not 
Bessy do to save her father from ruin and 
disgrace, and a prison ? She would have 
laid down her life for him, she would have 
cheerfully consented never to see him again 
— till the great day comes when we shall 
all meet to part no more. She consented; 
Mr. Lurcher was privately spoken to and 
dismissed; the Beast subsided into his 
usual taciturnity ; Bessy led her stricken, 
broken, trembling parent home. They 
passed through the long, dingy warerooms, 
the clerks whispering and looking as they 
passed. 

Bessy's wardrobe was not sufficiently vo- 
luminous to occasion the expenditure of any 
very great tim%.in packing. It was soon 
put up, in a very small shabby black box, 
studded with brass nails — many of them 
deficient. This, with Bessy herself, arrived 
at nine o'clock the next morning, as per 
agreement, at the Cheapside corner of Ur- 
sine Lane, where one of Mr. Braddle- 
scrogg's porters was in waiting, who brought 
Bessy and her box to the dismal Manches- 
ter warehouse owned by the Beast of Ursine 
Lane. 

And here, in the top floor of this lugubrious 
mansion, lived, for two long years, Bessy 
Simcox. At stated periods she saw her fam- 
ily for a few hours, and then went back to 
her prison-house. She carved the beef and 
mutton for the hungry clerks, she mended 
their linen, she gave out candles, she calcu- 
lated washing bills. The old, old story of 
Beauty and the Beast was being done over 
again in Ursine Lane, Cheapside. Bessy 
ripened into a Beauty, in this dismal hot- 


60 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


house ; and the Beast was, as I have told 
you he always was. Beauty dwelt in no fairy 
palace ; surrounded by no rose bushes, no 
sweet-smelling gardens, no invisible hands 
to wait on her at supper. It was all hard, 
stern, uncompromising reality. She had to 
■deal with an imperious, sullen, brutal mas- 
ter. Everybody knew it. She dealt with 
him as Bessy had the art of dealing with 
every one. She bore with him meekly, 
gently, patiently. She strove to win his 
forbearance, his respect. She won them 
both, and more — his love. 

Yes, his love 1 Don’t be afraid; the Beast 
never changed to Prince Azor. He never 
lay among the rose bushes sick to death, and 
threatening to die unless Beauty married 
him. But at the end of the two years, when 
their contract was at an end, and when its 
fulfilment had given him time to know 
Bessy well, and to save the father through 
the child, he besought Bessy to remain with 
him in the same capacity, offering her muni- 
ficent terms and any degree of liberty she 
required as regarded communication with 
her family. Bessy stayed. She stayed two 
years; she stayed three; she stays there 
now, to witness if I lie. 

Not alone however. It occurred to Wil- 
liam B., junior — the lad with the blue eyes 
and fair hair — to grow up to be a tall young 
man, and to fall violently in love with the 
pretty little housekeeper. It occurred to his 
father, instead of smiting him on the hip 


immediately, or eating him up alive in wild 
beast fashion, to tell him ho was a very sen- 
sible fellow, and to incite Bessy (we must 
call her Beauty now) to encourage his ad- 
dresses, which indeed, dear little puss I she 
was nothing loth to do. So Beauty was 
married. Not to the Beast, but to the Beast’s 
son ; and Beauty and William and the Beast 
all removed to a pretty house in the prettiest 
country near London, where they live to this 
day, again to witness if I lie. 

The Beast is a Beast no longer. Every- 
body admits that he is not a beast now; 
some few are even doubtful whether he ever 
was a Beast. He carries on the Ursine Lane 
business (in partnership with his son) still, 
and is a very rough-headed and rough-voiced 
old man. But the rough kernel and rough 
integument are worn away from his heart, 
and he is genial and jovial among his depen- 
dants. Charitable in secret, he had always 
been, even in his most brutish times ; and 
you are not to believe (for Braddlescroggs 
talked nonsense sometimes and he knew it) 
that the old housekeeper, when she became 
blind or bedridden, was sent adrift or to the 
workhouse; that old John Simcox was not 
allowed sufficient funds for his pipe and his 
glass (in strict moderation) at the Admiral 
Benbow; or that the two Misses Simcox, 
when they married at last (after superhu- 
man exertions), went dowerless. No. The 
Beast remembered, and was generous to 
them all. 


iqE ANGEL’S STOKY. 


Thbottgh the blue and frosty heavens, 
Christmas stars were shining bright ; 
The glistening lamps of the great City 
Almost matched their gleaming light ; 
And the winter snow was lying. 

And the winter winds were sighing. 
Long ago one Christmas night. 

While from every tower and steeple. 
Pealing bells were sounding clear, 
(Never with such tones of gladness. 
Save when Christmas time is near) 
Many a one that night was merry. 

Who had toiled through all the year. 

That night saw old wrongs forgiven. 
Friends, long parted, reconcile ; 
Voices, all unused to laughter. 

Eyes that had forgot to smile. 
Anxious hearts that feared the morrow. 
Freed from all their cares awhile. 


Rich and poor felt the same blessing 
From the gracious season fall ; 

Joy and plenty in the cottage. 

Peace and feasting in the hall ; 

And the voices of the children 
Ringing clear above it all ! 

Yet one house was dim and darkened.* 
Gloom, and sickness, and despair 
Abiding in the gilded chamber. 
Climbing up the marble stair. 
Stilling even the voice of mourning — 
For a child lay dying there. 

Silken curtains fell around him, 

Velvet carpets hushed the tread. 
Many costly toys were lying. 

All unheeded, by his bed ; 

And his tangled golden ringlets 
Were on downy pillows spread. 


61 


NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 


All the skill of the great City 
To save that little life was vain j 
That little thread from being broken ; 
That fatal word from being spoken ; 

Nay, his very mother’s pain, 

And the mighty love within her. 

Could not give him health again. 

And she knelt there still beside him, 

She alone with strength to smile. 

And to promise he should suffer 
No more in a little while, 

And with murmur’d song and story 
The long weary hours beguile. 

Suddenly an unseen Presence 

Checked these constant mourning cries. 
Stilled the little heart’s quick fluttering. 
Raised the blue and wondering eyes. 
Fixed on some mysterious vision, 

With a startled sweet surprise. 

For a radiant angel hovered 
Smiling o’er the little bed ; 

White his raiment, from his shoulders 
Snowy dove-like pinions spread, 

And a starlike light was shining 
In a Glory round his head. 

While, with tender love, the angel, 
Leaning o’er the little nest. 

In his arms the sick child folding, 

Laid him gently on his breast. 

Sobs and wailings from the mother. 

And her darling was at rest. 

So the angel, slowly rising. 

Spread his wings ; and, through the air. 
Bore the pretty child, and held him 
On his heart with loving care, 

A red branch of blooming roses 
Placing softly by him there. 

While the child thus clinging, floated 
Towards the mansions of the Blest, 
Gazing from his shining guardian 
To the flowers upon his breast. 

Thus the angel spake, still smiling 
On the little heavenly guest : 

“ Know, 0 little one ! that Heaven 
Does no earthly thing disdain ; 

Man’s poor joys find there an echo 
Just as surely as his pain : 

Love, on earth so feebly striving. 

Lives divine in Heaven again ! 

« Once, in yonder town below us. 

In a poor and narrow street. 

Dwelt a little sickly orphan ; 

Gentle aid, or pity sweet. 

Never in life’s rugged pathway 
Guided his poor tottering feet, 

“ All the striving anxious forethought 
That should only come with age. 
Weighed upon his baby spirit. 

Showed him soon life’s sternest page ; 
Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow^ 
Was his only heritage ! 


“ All too weak for childish pastimes 
Drearily the hours sped ; 

On his hands so small and trembling 
Leaning his poor aching head. 

Or, through dark and painful hours 
Lying sleepless on no bed, 

“ Dreaming strange and longing fancies 
Of cool forests far away ; 

Dreams of rosy happy children. 

Laughing merrily at play ; 

Coming home through green lanes, bearing 
Trailing branches of white May 

“ Scarce a glimpse of the blue heavens 
Gleamed above the narrow street, 

And the sultry air of Summer 
(That you called so warm and sweet,) 
Fevered the poor Orphan, dwelling 
In the crowded alley’s heat. 

« One bright day, with feeble footsteps 
Slowly forth he dared to crawl. 

Through the crowded city’s pathways. 

Till he reached a garden wall ; 

Where ’mid princely halls and mansions 
Stood the lordliest of all. 

« There were trees with giant branches. 
Velvet glades where shadows hide ; 

There were sparkling fountains glancing. 
Flowers whose rich luxuriant pride 
Wafted a breath of precious perfiime 
To the child who stood outside, 

“ He against the gate of iron 

Pressed his wan and wistful face. 

Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure 
At the glories of the place ; 

Never had his fahest day-dream 

Shone with halt such wondrous grace. 

“You were playing in that garden 
Throwing blossoms in the air. 

And laughing when the petals floated 
Downward on your golden hair ; 

And the fond eyes watching o’er you, 

And the splendor spread before you. 

Told a House’s Hope was there. 

“ When your servants, tired of seeing 
His pale face and want of woe. 

Turning to the ragged Orphan, 

Gave him coin, and bade him go, 

Down his cheeks so thin and wasted, 

Bitter tears began to flow. 

« But that look of childish sorrow 
On your tender young heart fell. 

And you plucked the reddest roses 
From the tree you loved so well. 

Passing them through the stern grating. 
With the gentle word, * Farewell !’ 

“ Dazzled by the fragrant treasure 
And the gentle voice he heard 
In the poor forlorn boy’s spirit, 

Joy the sleeping Seraph stirred • 

In his hand he clasped the flowers, 

In his heart the loving word. 


62 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


« So he crept to his poor garret, 

Poor no more, but rich and bright ; 

For the holy dreams of childhood — 

Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light — 
Floated round the Orphan’s pillow 
Through the starry summer night. 

Day dawned, yet the vision lasted ; 

All too weak to rise he lay ; 

Did he dream that none spoke harshly— 
All were strangely kind that day 1 
Yes ; he ^thought his treasured roses 
Must have charmed all ills away. 

“ And he smiled, though they were fading ; 

One by one their/ leaves were shed ; 

‘ Such bright things could never perish, 
They would bloom again,’ he said. 
When the next day’s sun had risen, 

' Child and flowers both were dead. 


« Know, dear little one ! our Father 
Does no gentle deed disdain ; 

And in hearts that beat in heaven, 

Still all tender thoughts remain ; 

Love on the cold earth remaining 
Lives divine and pure again !” 

✓ 

Thus the angel ceased, and gently 
O’er his little burthen leant ; 

While the child gazed from the shining 
Loving eyes that o’er him bent, 

To the blooming roses by him. 

Wondering what that mystery mean^ 

Then the radiant angel answered. 

And with holy meaning smiled : 

“ Ere your tender, loving spirit 
Sin' and the hard world defiled, 

Mercy gave me leave to seek you : 

I was once that little child!” 




THE SQUIEE’S STORY 


In the year seventeen hundred and sixty- 
nine, the little town of Barford was thrown 
into a state of great excitement by the in- 
telligence that a gentleman (and “ quite the 
gentleman,” said the landlord of the George 
Inn), had been looking at Mr. Clavering’s 
old house. This house was neither in the 
town nor in the country. It stood on the 
outskirts of Barford, on the road-side leading 
to Derby. The last occupant had been a 
Mr. Clavering— a Northumberland gentle- 
man of good family — who had come to live 
in Barford when he was but a younger son ; 
but when some elder branches of the family 
died, he had returned to take possession of 
the family estate. The house of which I 
speak was called the White House, from its 
being covered with a grayish kind of stucco. 
It had a good garden to the back, and Mr. 
Clavering had built capital stables, with 
what were then considered the latest im- 
provements. The point of good stabling 
was expected to let the house, as it was in a 
hunting county; otherwise it had few re- 
commendations. There were many bed- 
rooms; some entered through others, even 
to the number of five, leading one beyond 
the other ; several sitting-rooms of the small 
and poky “kind, wainscotted round with 
wood, and then painted a heavy slate color ; 
one good dining-room, and a drawing-room 
over it, both looking into the garden, with 
pleasant bow-windows. 

Such was the accommodation offered by 
the White House. It did not seem to be 
very tempting to strangers, though the good 
people of Barford rather piqued themselves 


on it, as the largest house in the town ; and 
as a housed in which “townspeople” and 
“ county people” had often met at Mr. 
Clavering’s friendly dinners. To appreciate 
this circumstance of pleasant recollection, 
you should have lived some years in a little 
country town, surrounded by gentlemen’s 
seats. You would then understand how a 
bow or a courtesy from a member of a county 
family elevates the individuals who receive 
it almost as much, in their own eyes, as the 
pair of blue garters fringed with silver did 
Mr. Bickerstaff’s ward. They trip lightly 
on air for a whole day afterwards. Now 
Mr. Clavering was gone, where could town 
and county mingle ? 

I mention these things that you may have 
an idea of the desirability of the letting of 
the White House in the Barfordites’ imagi- 
nation ; and to make the mixture thick and 
slab, you must add for yourselves the bustle, 
the mystery, and the importance which 
every little event either causes or assumes 
in a small town ; and then, perhaps, it will 
be no wonder to you that twenty ragged 
little urchins accompanied “ the gentleman” 
aforesaid to the door of the White House ; 
and that, although he was above an hour 
inspecting it under the auspices of Mr, 
Jones, the agent’s clerk, thirty more hal 
joined themselves on to the wondering crowd 
before his exit, and awaited such crumbs of 
intelligence as they could gather before they 
were threatened or whipped out of hearing 
distance. Presently out came “ the gentle- 
man” and the lawyer’s clerk. The latter 
was speaking as he followed the former over 


NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 63 


the threshold. The gentleman was tall, 
well-dressed, handsome; but there was a 
sinister, cold look in his quick-glancing, 
light blue eye, which a keen observer might 
not have liked. There were no keen ob- 
servers among the boys, and ill-conditioned 
gaping girls. But they stood too near ; in- 
conveniently close ; and the gentleman, 
lifting up his right hand, in which he carried 
a short riding whip, dealt one or two sharp 
blows to the nearest, with a look of savage 
enjoyment on his face as they moved away 
whimpering and crying. An instant after, 
his expression of countenance had changed. 

“Here !” said he, drawing out a handful 
of money, partly silver, partly copper, and 
throwing it into the midst of them. “ Scram- 
ble for it 1 fight it out, my lads ! come this 
afternoon, at three, to the George, and I'll 
throw you out some more." So the boys 
hurrahed for him as he walked off with the 
agent's clerk. He chuckled to himself, as 
over a pleasant thought. “ I'll have some 
fun with those lads," he said ; “ I'll teach 'em 
to come prowling and prying about me. I'll 
tell you what I'll do. I'll make the money 
so hot in the fire shovel that it shall burn 
their fingers.^ You come and see the faces 
and the howling. 

“ I shall be very glad if you will dine with 
me at two ; and by that time i may have 
made up my mind about the house." 

Mr. Jones, the agent's clerk, agreed to 
come to the George at two, but, somehow, 
he had a distaste for his entertainer. Mr. 
Jones would not like to have said, even to 
himself, that a man with a purse full of 
money, who kept many horses, and spoke 
familiarly of noblemen — above all, who 
thought of taking the White House — could 
be anything but a gentleman ; but still the 
uneasy wonder as to who this Mr. Robinson 
Higgins could be, filled the clerk's mind 
long after Mr. Higgins, Mr. Higgins's ser- 
vants, and Mr. Higgins's stud, had taken 
possession of the White House. 

The White House was re-stuccoed (this 
time of a pale yellow color), and put into 
thorough repair by the accommodating and 
delighted landlord ; while his tenant seemed 
inclined to spend any amount of money on 
internal decorations, which were showy and 
effective in their character, enough to make 
the White House a nine days' wonder to the 
good people of Barford. The slate-colored 
paints became pink, and were picked out 
with gold ; the oldfashioned bannisters were 
replaced by newly gilt ones ; but above all, 
the stables were a sight to be seen. Since 
the days of the Roman Emperor never was 
there such provision made for the care, the 
comfort, and the health of horses. But 
every one said it was no wonder, when they 
were led through Barford, covered up to 
their eyes, but curving their arched and 
delicate necks, and prancing with short high 


steps, in repressed eagerness. Only one 
groom came with them ; yet they required 
the care of three men. Mr. Higgins, how- 
ever, preferred engaging two lads out of 
Barford ; and Barford highly approved of his 
preference. Not only was it kind and 
thoughtful to give employment to the loung- 
ing lads themselves, but they were receiving 
such a training in Mr. Higgins's stables as 
might fit them for Doncaster or Newmarket. 
The district of Derbyshire in which Barford 
was situated, was too close to Leicestershire 
not to support a hunt and a pack of hounds. 
The master of the hounds was a certain Sir 
Harry Manley, who was aut a huntsman aut 
nullus. He measured a man by the “ length 
of his fork," not by the expression of his 
countenance, or the shape of his head. But 
as Sir Harry was wont to observe, there was 
such a thing as too long a fork, so his ap- 
probation was withheld until he had seen a 
man on horseback ; and if his seat there was 
square and easy, his hand light, and his 
courage good. Sir Harry hailed him as a 
brother. 

Mr. Higgins attended the first meet of the 
season, not as a subscriber but as an ama- 
teur. The Barford huntsmen piqued them- 
selves on their bold riding ; and their 
knowledge of the country came by nature ; 
yet this new strange man, whom nobody 
knew, was in at the death, sitting on his 
horse, both well breathed and calm, without 
a hair turned on the sleek skin of the latter, 
supremely addressing the old huntsman as 
he hacked off the tail of the fox ; and he, the 
old man, who was testy even under Sir 
Harry's slightest rebuke, and flew out on 
any other member of the hunt that dared to 
utter a word against his sixty years' experi- 
ence as stable-boy, groom, poacher, and 
what not ; he, old Isaac Wormeley, was 
meekly listening to the wisdom of this 
stranger, only now and then giving one of 
his quick, up-turning, cunning glances, not 
unlike the sharp o'er-canny looks of the poor 
deceased Reynard, round whom the hounds 
were howling, unadmonished by the short 
whip, which was now tucked into Worme- 
ley's well-worn pocket. When Sir Harry 
rode into the copse — full of dead brushwood 
and wet tangled grass — and was followed by 
the members of the hunt, as one by one they 
cantered past, Mr. Higgins took off his cap 
and bowed — half deferentially, half inso- 
lently — with a lurking ‘smile in the corner 
of his eye at the. discomfited looks of one or 
two of the laggards. “A famous run, sir," 
said Sir Harry. “ The first time you have 
hunted in our country, but I hope we shall 
see you often." 

“ I hope to become a member of the hunt, 
sir," said Mr. Higgins. 

“ Most happy — proud, I'm sure, to receive 
so daring a rider among us, You took the 
Cropper-gate, I fiincy ; while some of our 


64 


DiCKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


friends here’^ — scowling at one or two cow- 
ards by way of finishing his speech. “Allow 
me to introduce myself — master of the 
hounds” — he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket 
for the card on which his name was formally 
inscribed. “ Some of our friends here are 
kind enough to come home with me to din- 
ner ; might I ask for the honor ?” 

“ My name is Higgins,” replied the stran- 
ger bowing, low. “ I am only lately come 
to occupy the White House at Barford, and 
I have not as yet presented my letters of 
introduction.” 

“ Hang it I” replied Sir Harry ; “ a man 
with a seat like yours, and that good brush 
in your hand, might ride up to any door in 
the county (Fm a Leicestershire man), and 
be a welcome guest. Mr. Higgins, I shall 
be proud to become better acquainted with 
you over my dinner table.” 

Mr. Higgins knew pretty well how to im- 
prove the acquaintance thus began. He 
could sing a good song, tell a good story, 
and was well up in practical jokes; with 
plenty of that keen worldly sense, which 
seems like an instinct in some men, and 
which in this case taught him on whom he 
might play off such jokes, with impunity 
from their resentment, and with a security 
of applause from the more boisterous, vehe- 
ment or prosperous. At the end of twelve 
months Mr. Robinson Higgins was, out-and- 
out, the most popular member of Barford 
hunt ; had beaten all the others by a couple 
of lengths, as his first patron. Sir Harry 
observed one evening when they were just 
leaving the dinner-table of an old hunting 
squire in the neighborhood. 

“ Because, you know,” said Squire Hearn, 
holding Sir Harry by the button — “I mean, 
you see, this young spark is looking sweet 
upon Catherine ; and she’s a good girl, and 
will have ten thousand pounds down the day 
she’s married, by her mother’s will ; and — 
excuse me, Sir Harry — but I should not 
like my girl to throw herself ,away.” 

Though Sir Harry had a long ride before 
him, and but the early and short light of a 
new moon to take it in, his kind heart was 
so much touched by Squire Hearn’s trem- 
bling, tearful anxiety, that he stopped, and 
turned back into the dining-room to say, 
with more asseverations than I care to give. 

“ My good Squire, 1 may say, I know that 
man pretty well by this time ; and a better 
fellow never existed. If I had twenty daugh- 
ters, he should have the pick of them.” 

Squire Hearn never thought of asking 
the grounds for his old friend’s opinion of 
Mr. Higgins ; it had been given with too 
much earnestness for any doubts to cross 
the old man’s mind as to the possibility of 
its not being well founded. Mr. Hearn was 
not a doubter or a thinker, or suspicious by 
nature ; it was simply his love for Catherine, 
his only child, that prompted his anxiety in 


this case ; and after what Sir Harry had 
said, the old man could totter with an easy 
mind, though not with very steady legs, 
into the drawing-room, where his bonny 
blushing daughter Catherine and Mr. Hig- 
gins stood close together on the hearth-rug 
— he wispering, she listening with downcast 
eyes. She looked so happy, so like her dead 
mother had looked when the Squire was a 
young man, that all his thought was how to 
please her most. His son and heir was 
about to be married, and bring his wife to 
live with the Squire ; Barford and the White 
House were not distant an hour’s ride ; and, 
even as these thoughts passed his mind, he 
asked Mr. Higgins if he could not stay all 
night — the young moon was already set — the 
roads would be dark — and Catherine looked 
up with a pretty anxiety, which however, 
had not much doubt in it, for the answer. 

With every encouragement of this kind 
from the old Squire, it took everbody rather 
by surprise when one morning it was 
discovered that Miss Catherine Hearn was 
missing ; and when, according to the usual 
fashion, in such cases, a note was found, 
saying that she had eloped with “ the man 
of her heart,” and gone to Gretna Green, no 
one could imagine why she could not quietly 
have stopped at home, and married in the 
parish church. She had always been a ro- 
mantic, sentimental girl ; very pretty and 
very affectionate, and very much spoiled, 
and very much wanting in common sense. 
Her indulgent father was deeply hurt at this 
want of confidence in his never-varying 
affection ; but when his son came, hot with 
indignation from the Baronet’s (his future 
father-in-law’s house, where every form of 
law and ceremony was to accompany his 
own impending marriage). Squire Hearn 
pleaded the cause of the young couple with 
imploring cogency, and protested that it was 
a piece of spirit in his daughter, which he 
admired and was proud of. However, it 
ended with Mr. Nathaniel Hearn’s declaring 
that he and his wife would have nothing to 
do with his sister and her husband. “Wait 
till you have seen him, Nat I” said the old 
Squire, trembling with his distressful anti- 
cipations of family discord, “ He’s an excuse 
for any girl. Only ask Sir Harry’s opinion 
of him.” “ Confound Sir Harry I So that 
a man sits his horse well, Sir Harry cares 
nothing about anything else. Who is this 
man — this fellow ? Where does he come 
from ? What are his means ? Who are his 
family ?” 

“He comes from the south — Surrey or 
Somersetshire, I forget which ; and he pays 
his way well and liberally. There’s not a 
tradesman in Barford but says he cares no 
more for money than for water ; he spends 
like a prince, Nat. I don’t know who his 
family are, but he seals with a coat of arms 
which may tell you if you want to know— 


65 


NINE NEW STOKIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 


and he goes regularly to collect his rents 
from his estates in the south. Oh, Nat I if 
you would but he friendly, I should be as 
well pleased with Kitty's marria,ge as any 
father in the country." 

Mr. Nathaniel Hearn gloomed, and mut- 
tered an oath or two to himself. The poor 
old father was reaping the consequences of 
bis weak indulgence to his two children. 
Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Hearn kept apart 
from Catherine and her husband ; and 
Squire ‘Hearn durst never ask them to Levi- 
son Hall, though it was his own house. 
Indeed, he stole away as if he were a culprit 
whenever he went to visit the White House ; 
and if he passed a night there, he was fain 
to equivocate when he returned home the 
next day ; an equivocation which was well 
interpreted by the surly, proud Nathaniel. 
But the younger Mr. and Mrs. Hearn were 
the only people who did not visit at the 
White House. Mr. and Mrs. Higgins were 
decidedly more popular than their brother 
and sister-in-law. She made a very pretty 
sweet-tempered hostess, and her education 
had not been such as to make her intolerant 
of any want of refinement in the associates 
who gathered round her husband. She had 
gentle smiles for townspeople as well as 
country people ; and unconsciously played 
an admirable second in her husband's 
project of making himself universally 
popular. 

But there is some one to make ill-natured 
remarks, and draw ill-natured conclusions 
from very simple premises, in every place ; 
and in Barford this bird of ill omen was a 
Miss Pratt. She did not hunt — so Mr. Hig- 
gins's admirable riding did not call out her 
admiration. She did not drink — so the well- 
selected wines so lavishly dispensed among 
his guests, could never mollify Miss Pratt. 
She could not bear comic songs, or buffo 
stories — so, in that way, her approbation was 
impregnable. And these three secrets of 
popularity constituted Mr. Higgins's great 
charm. Miss Pratt sat and watched. Her 
face looked immoveably grave at the end of 
any of Mr. Higgins's best stories ; but there 
was a keen, needle-like glance of her un- 
winking little eyes, which Mr. Higgins felt 
rather than saw, and which made him shiver, 
even on a hot day, when it fell upon him. 
Miss Pratt was a dissenter, and, to propiti- 
ate this female Mordecai, Mr. Higgins asked 
the dissenting minister whose services she 
attended to dinner; kept himself and his 
company in good order ; gave a handsome 
donation to the poor of the chapel. All in 
vain — Miss Pratt stirred not a muscle more 
of her face towards graciousness ; and Mr. 
Higgins was conscious that, in spite of all 
his open efforts to captivate Mr. Davis, there 
was a secret influence on the other side, 
throwing in doubts and suspicions, and evil 
interpretations of all he said or did. Miss 


Pratt, the little plain old maid, living on 
eighty pounds a year, was the thorn in the 
popular Mr. Higgins's side, although she had 
never spoken one uncivil word to him ; in- 
deed, on the contrary, had treated him with 
a stiff and elaborate civility. 

The thorn — the grief to Mrs. Higgins was 
this. They had no children I Oh I how she 
would stand and envy the careless busy 
motion of half-a-dozen children ; and then, 
when observed, move on with a deep, deep 
sigh of yearning regret. But it was as well. 

it was noticed that Mr. Higgins was re- 
markably careful of his health. He ate, 
drank, took exercise, rested, by some secret 
rules of his own ; occasionally bursting into 
an excess, it is true, but only on rare occa- 
sions — such as when he returned from 
visiting his estates in the south, and collect- 
ing his rents. That unusual exertion and 
fatigue — for there were no stage coaches 
within forty miles of Barford, and he, like 
most country gentlemen of that day, would 
have preferred riding if there had been — 
seemed to require some strange excess to 
compensate for it ; and rumors went through 
the town, that he shut himself up, and 
drank enormously for some days after his 
return. But no one was admitted to these 
orgies. 

One day — they remembered it well after- 
wards — the hounds met not far from the 
town ; and the fox was found in a part of 
the wild heath, which was beginning to be 
enclosed by a few of the more wealthy 
towns-people, who were desirous of building 
themselves houses rather more in the coun- 
try than those they had hitherto lived in. 
Among these the principal was a Mr. Dud- 
geon, the attorney of Barford, and the agent 
for all the county families about. The firm 
of Dudgeon had managed the leases, the 
marriage settlements, and the wills, of the 
neighborhood for generations. Mr. Dud- 
geon's father had the responsibility of 
collecting the land-owner's rents just as the 
present Mr. Dudgeon had at the time of 
which I speak ; and as his son and his son's 
son have done since. Their business was 
an hereditary estate to them; and with 
something of the old feudal feeling, was 
mixed a kind of proud humility at their 
position towards the squires whose family 
secrets they had mastered, and the myste- 
ries of whose fortunes and estates were 
better known to the Messrs. Dudgeon than 
to themselves. 

Mr. John Dudgeon had built himself a 
house on Wildbury Health ; a mere cottage, 
as he called it ; but though only two stories 
high, it spread out far and wide, and work- 
people from Derby had been sent for on pur- 
pose to make the inside as complete as 
possible. The gardens too were exquisite 
in arrangement, if not very extensive ; and 
not a flower was grown in them but of the 


66 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


rarest species. It must have been some- 
what of a mortification to the owner of this 
dainty place when, on the day of which I 
speak, the fox, after a long race, during 
which he had described a circle of many 
miles, took refuge in the garden ; but Mr. 
Dudgeon put a good face on the matter when 
a gentlema.n hunter, with the careless in- 
solence of the squires of those days and that 
place, rode across the velvet lawn, and tap- 
ing at the window of the dining-room with 
is whip handle, asked permission — no ! 
that is not it — rather informed Mr. Dudgeon 
of theii* intention — to enter his garden in a 
body, and have the fox unearthed. Mr. 
Dudgeon compelled himself to smile assent, 
with the grace of a masculine Griselda ; and 
then he hastily gave orders to have all that 
the house afibrded of provision set out for 
luncheon, guessing rightly enough that a six 
hours’ run would give even homely fare an 
acceptable welcome. He bore without win^ 
cing the entrance of the dirty boots into his 
exquisitely clean rooms ; be only felt grate- 
ful for the care with which Mr. Higgins 
strode about, laboriously and noiselessly 
moving on the tips of his toes, as he recon- 
noitred the rooms with a curious eye. 

“ Dm going to build a house myself. 
Dudgeon ; and, upon my word, I don’t think 
I could take a better model than yours/^ 

“ Oh ! my poor cottage would be too small 
to afibrd any hints for such a house as you 
would wish to build, Mr. Higgins,” replied 
Mr. Dudgeon, gently rubbing his hands 
nevertheless at the compliment. 

“ Not at all ! Let me see. You have 
dining-room, drawing-room” — he hesitated, 
and Mr. Dudgeon filled up the blank as he 
expected. 

“Four sitting-rooms and the bed-rooms. 
But allow me to show you over the house. 
I confess I took some pains in arranging it, 
and, though far smaller than what you 
would require, it may, nevertheless, afford 
you some hints.” 

So they left the eating gentlemen with 
their mouths and their plates quite full, and 
the scent of the fox overpowering that of 
the hasty rasher of ham ; and they carefully 
inspected all the ground-floor rooms. Then 
Mr. Dudgeon said ; 

“ If you are not tired, Mr. Higgins — it is 
rather my hobby, so you must pull me up if 
you are — we will go up stairs, and I will 
show you my sanctum.” 

Mr. Dudgeon’s sanctum was the centre 
room, over tne porch, which formed a bal- 
cony, and which was carefully filled with 
choice flowers in pots. Inside, there were 
all kinds of elegant contrivances for hiding 
the real strength of all the boxes and chests 
required by the particular nature of Mr. 
Dudgeon’s business ; for although his office 
was in Barford; he kept (as he informed Mr. 
Higgins) what was the most valuable here, 


as being safer than an office which was 
locked up and left every night. But, as 
Mr. Higgins reminded him with a sly poke in 
the side, when next they met, his own house 
was not over secure. A fortnight after the 
gentlemen of the Barford hunt lunched there, 
Mr. Dudgeon’s strong-box, in his sanctum 
up stairs, with the mysterious spring bolt to 
the window invented by himself, and the 
secret of which was only known to the in 
ventor and a few of his most intimate friends, 
to whom he had proudly shown it ; — this 
strong-box, containing the collected Christ- 
mas rents of half a dozen landlords, (^there 
was then no bank nearer than Derby,) was 
rifled ; and the secretly rich Mr. Dudgeon 
had to stop his agent in his purchases of 
paintings by Flemish artists, because the 
money was required to make good the miss- 
ing rents. 

The Dogberries and Verges of those days 
were quite incapable of obtaining any clue 
to the robber or robbers ; and though one or 
two vagrants were taken up and brought 
before Mr. Dunover and Mr. Higgins, the 
magistrates who usually attended in the 
court room at Barford, there was no evidence 
brought against them, and after a couple of 
nights’ durance in the lock-ups they were 
set at liberty. But it became a standing 
joke with Mr. Higgins to ask Mr. Dudgeon, 
from time to time, whether he could re- 
commend him a place of safety for his 
valuables ; or, if he had made any more in- 
ventions lately for securing houses from 
robbers. 

About two years after this time — about 
seven years after Mr, Higgins had been 
married — one Tuesday ’Evening, Mr. Davis 
was sitting reading the news in the coffee- 
room of the George Inn. He belonged to a 
club of gentlemen who met there occasion- 
ally to play at whist, to read what few news- 
papers and magazines were published in 
those days, to chat about the market at 
Derby, and prices all over the country. This 
Tuesday night it was a black frost ; and few 
people were in the room. Mr. Davis was 
anxious to finish an article in the “Gentle- 
man’s Magazine ;” indeed, he was making 
extracts from it, intending to answer it, and 
yet unable with his small income to pur- 
chase a copy. So he staid late ; it was past 
nine, and at ten o’clock the room was closed. 
But while he wrote, Mr. Higgins came in. 
He was pale and haggard with cold; Mr. 
Davis, who had had for some time sole pos- 
session of the fire, moved politely on one 
side, and handed to the new comer the sole 
London newspaper which the room afforded. 
Mr. Higgins accepted it, and made some re- 
mark on the intense coldness of the weather ; 
but Mr. Davis was too full of his article, 
and intended reply, to fall into conversation 
readily. Mr. Higgins hitched his chair 
nearer to the fire, and put his feet on the 


NINE NEW STORIES BY 

fender, giving an audible shudder. He put 
the newspaper on one end of the table near 
him, and sat gazing into the red embers of 
the fire, crouching down over them as if his 
very marrow were chilled. At length he 
said 

“ There is no account of the murder at 
Bath in that paper V’ Mr. Davis, who had 
finished taking his notes, and waspreparing 
to go, stopped short, and asked : 

“ Has there been a murder at Bath ? No I 
I have not seen anything of it — who was 
murdered 

“ Oh ! it was a shocking, terrible murder!’^ 
said Mr. Higgins, not raising his look from 
the fire, but gazing on, his eyes dilated till 
the whites were seen all round them. “ A 
terrible, terrible murder ! I wonder what 
will become of the murderer ? I can fancy 
the red glowing centre of that fire — look and 
see how infinitely distant it seems, and how 
the distance magnifies it into something 
awful and unquenchable.’^ 

“ My dear sir, you are feverish ; how you 
shake and shiver !” said Mr. Davis, think- 
ing privately that his companion had symp- 
toms of fever, and that he was wandering in 
his mind. 

“ Oh, no I” said Mr. Higgins. “ I am not 
feverish. It is the night which is so cold.” 
And for a time he talked with Mr. Davis 
about the article in the “ Gentleman’s Ma- 
gazine,” for he was rather a reader himself, 
and could take more interest in Mr. Davis’s 
pursuits than most of the people at Barford. 
At length it drew near to ten, and Mr. Davis 
rose up to go home to his lodgings. 

“ No, Davis, don’t go. I want you here. 
We will have a bottle of port together, and 
that will put Saunders in good humor. I 
want to tell you about this murder,” he 
continued, dropping his voice, and speaking 
hoarse and low, “She was an old woman, 
and he killed her, sitting reading her Bible 
by her own fireside !” He looked at Mr. 
Davis with a strange searching gaze, as if 
trying to find some sympathy^ in the horror 
which the idea presented to him. ^ 

“ Who do you mean, my dear sir? What 
is this murder you are so full of? No one 
has been murdered here.” 

“ No, you fool I I tell you it was in Bath I 
said Mr. Higgins, with sudden passion ; and 
then calming himself to most velvet smooth- 
ness of manner, he laid his hand on Mr. 
Davis’s knee, there, as they sat by the fire, 
and gently detaining him, began the narra- 
tion of the crime he was so full of ; but his 
voice and manner were constrained to a 
stony quietude ; he never looked in Mr. 
Davis’s face; once or twice, as Mr. Davis 
remembered afterwards, his grip tightened 
like a compressing vice. 

“ She lived in a small house in a quiet 
old-fashioned street, she and her maid. Peo- 
ple said she was a good old woman ; but for 


THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 67 

all that she hoarded and hoarded, and never 
gave to the poor. Mr. Davis, it is wicked 
not to give to the poor — wicked— wicked, is 
it not ? I always give to the poor, for once I 
read in the Bible that ‘ Charity covereth a 
multitude of sins.’ The wicked old woman 
never gave, but hoarded her money, and 
saved, and saved. Some one heard of it ; I 
say she threw a temptation in his way, and 
God will punish her for it. And this man — 
or it might be a woman, who knows ? — and 
this person — heard also that she went to 
church in the mornings, and her maid in the 
afternoons ; and so — while the maid was at 
church, and the street and the house quite 
still, and the darkness of a winter afternoon 
coming on — she was nodding over the Bible 
— and that, mark you ! is a sin, and one that 
God will avenge sooner or later ; and a step 
came in the dusk up the stair, and that per- 
son I told you of, stood in the room. At 
first he — no ! At first, it is supposed — for, 
you understand, all this is mere guess work, 
it is supposed that he asked her civilly 
enough to give him her money, or tell him 
where it was ; but the old miser defied him, 
and would not ask for mercy and give up 
her keys, even when he threatened her, but 
looked him in the face as if he had been a 
baby — Oh, God I Mr. Davis, I once dreamt 
when I was a little innocent boy that I 
should commit a crime like this, and I 
wakened up crying ; and my mother com- 
forted me — that is the reason I tremble so 
now, that and the cold, for it is very, very 
cold I” 

“ But did he murder the old lady?” asked 
Mr. Davis. “ I beg your pardon, sir, but I 
am interested by your story.” 

“ Yes I he cut her throat ; and there she 
lies yet in her quiet little parlor, with her 
face upturned and all ghastly white, in the 
middle of a pool of blood. Mr. Davis, this 
wine is no better than water ; I must have 
some brandy !” 

Mr. Davis was horror-struck by the story, 
which seemed to have fascinated him as 
much as it had done his companion. 

“Have they got any clue to the mur- 
derer ?” said he. Mr. Higgins drank down 
half a tumbler of raw brandy before he an- 
swered. 

“ No I no clue whatever. They will never 
be able to discover him, and I should not 
wonder — Mr. Davis — I should not wonder if 
he repented after all, and did bitter penance 
for his crime ; and if so — will there be mercy 
for him at the last day ?” 

“ God knows,” said Mr. Davis with so 
lemnity. “ It is an awful story,” continued 
he, rousing himself : “I hardly like to leave 
this Avarm light room and go out into the 
darkness after hearing it. But it must be 
done,” buttoning on his great coat — “ I can 
only say I hope and trust they will find out 
the murderer, and hang him. If you’ll tak« 


68 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


my advice, you’ll have a bed w^armed, and 
drink a treacle-posset just the last thing ; 
and, if you’ll allow me, I’ll send you my 
answer to Philologus before it goes up to old 
Urban.” 

The next morning Mr. Davis went to call 
on Miss Pratt, who was not very well ; and 
by way of being agreeable and entertaining, 
he related to her all he had heard the night 
before about the murder in Bath, and really 
he made a very pretty connected story out 
of it, and interested Miss Pratt very much 
in the fate of the old lady — partly because 
of a similarity in their situations ; for she 
also hoarded money, and had but one ser- 
vant, and stopped at home alone on Sunday 
afternoons to allow her servant to go to 
church. 

“And when did all this happen?” she 
asked. 

“ I don’t know if Mr. Higgins named the 
day ; and yet I think it must have been on 
this very last Sunday.” 

“And to-day is Wednesday. Ill news 
travels fast. 

“ Yes, Mr. Higgins thought it might have 
been in the London newspaper.” 

“ That it could never be. Where did Mr. 
ins learn all about it ?” 
don’t know, I did not ask ; I think 
he only came home yesterday: he had 
been south to collect his rents, somebody 
said.” 

Miss Pratt grunted. She used to vent 
her dislike and suspicions of Mr. Higgins 
in a grunt whenever his name was men- 
tioned. 

“ Well, I shan’t see you for some days. 
Godfrey Merton has asked me to go and 
stay with him and his sister ; and I think it 
will do me good. Besides,” added she, 
“ these winter evenings ; and these mur- 
derers at large in the country ; I don’t quite 
like living with only Peggy to call to in case 
of need.” 

Miss Pratt went to stay with her cousin, 
Mr. Merton. He was an active magistrate, 
and enjoyed his reputation as such. One 
day he came in, having just received his 
letters. 

“ Bad account of the morals of your little 
town here, Jessy !” said he, touching one of 
the letters. “You’ve either a murderer 
among you, or some friend of a murderer. 
Here’s a poor old lady at Bath had her throat 
cut last Sunday week ; and I’ve a letter from 
the Home Office, asking to lend them ‘ my 
very efficient aid,’ as they are pleased to call 
it, towards finding out the culprit. It seems 
he must have been thirsty, and of a com- 
fortable jolly turn ; for before going to his 
horrid work he tapped a barrel of ginger 
•wine the old lady had set by to work ; and 
he wrapped the spigot round with a piece 
of a letter taken out of his pocket, as may 
be supposed ; and this piece of a letter was 


found afterwards ; there are only these let- 
ters on the outside, ‘ ns, Esq^., -arford, -eg- 
worth, ^ which some one has ingeniously 
made out to mean Barford, near Kegworth. 
On the other side there is some allusion to 
a race-horse, I conjecture though the name 
is singular enough ; ‘ Church-and-King-and- 
down-with-the-Rump.’ ’” 

Miss Pratt caught at this name imme- 
diately ; it had hurt her feelings as a dis- 
senter only a few months ago, and she re- 
membered it well. 

“ Mr. Nat Hearn has— or had^ (as I am 
speaking in the witness-box, as it were, I 
must take care of my tenses), a horse with 
that ridiculous name.” 

“ Mr. Nat Hearn,” repeated Mr. Merton, 
making a note of the intelligence ; then he 
recurred to his letter from the Home Office 
again. 

“ There is also a piece of a small key, 
broken in the futile attempt to open a desk 
— well, well. Nothing more of conse- 
quence. The letter is what we must rely 
upon.” 

“Mr. Davis said that Mr. Higgins told 
him” — Miss Pratt began. 

“ Higgins !” exclaimed Mr. Merton, “ ns. 
Is it Higgins, the blustering fellow that ran 
away with Nat Hearn’s sister ?” 

“Yes I” said Miss Pratt. “But though 
he has never been a favorite of mine — ” 

“ ns” repeated Mr. Merton. It is too hor- 
rible to think of ; a member of the hunt — ■ 
kind old Squire Hearn’s son-in-law ! Who 
else have you in Barford with names that 
end in ns 

“ There’s Jackson, and Higginson, and 
Blenkinsop, and Davis and Jones, Cousin ! 
One thing strikes me — how did Mr. Hig- 
gins know all about it to tell Mr. Davis on 
Tuesday what had happened on Sunday 
afternoon ?” 

There is no need to add much more. 
Those curious in the lives of the highway- 
men may find the name of Higgins as con- 
spicuous among those annals as that of 
Claude Duval. Kate Hearn’s husband col- 
lected his rents on the highway, like many 
other “ gentlemen” of the day ; but having 
been unlucky in one or two of his adven- 
tures, and hearing exaggerated accounts 
of the hoarded wealth of the- old lady at 
Bath, he was led on from robbery to mur- 
der, and was hung for his crime at Derby, 
in seventeen hundred and seventy-five. 

He had not been an unkind husband ; 
and his poor wife took lodgings in Derby 
to be near him in his last moments ; his 
awful last moments. Her old father went 
with her everywhere but into her husband’s 
cell ; and wrung her heart by constantly 
accusing himself of having promoted her 
marriage with a man of whom he knew so 
little. He abdicated his squireship in fa- 
vor of his son Nathaniel. Nat was pros- 



69 


NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS EIRE. 


perous, and the helpless silly father could 
he of no use to him ; hut to his widowed 
daughter the foolish fond old man was all 
in all; her knight, her protector, her com- 
panion, her most faithful loving companion. 
Only he ever declined assuming the ofi&ce 
of her counsellor— shaking his head sadly, 
and saying — 

“ Ah ! Kate, Kate I if I had had more 
wisdom to have advised thee better, thou 
need’st not have been an exile here in 
Brussels, shrinking from the sight of every 
English person as if they knew thy story 


I saw the White House not a month ago ; 
it was to let, perhaps for the twentieth time 
since Mr. Higgins occupied it ; but still the 
tradition goes in Barford that once upon a 
time a highwayman lived there, and amassed 
untold treasures ; and that the ill-gotten 
wealth yef remains walled up in some un- 
known concealed chamber; but in what 
part of the house no one knows. 

Will any of you become tenants and try 
to find out this mysterious closet? I can 
furnish the exact address to any applicant 
who wishes for it. 


t 


UNCLE GEORGE’S STORY. 


We had devoted the morning before my 
wedding-day to the arrangement of those 
troublesome, delightful, endless little af- 
fairs, which the world says must be set in 
order on such occasions ; and late in the 
afternoon, we walked, down, Charlotte and 
myself, to take a last bachelor and maiden 
peep at the home which, next day, was to be 
ours in partnership. Goody Barnes, al- 
ready installed as our cook and house- 
keeper, stood at the door, ready to receive 
us as we crossed the market-place to in- 
spect our cottage for the twentieth time, — 
cottage by courtesy, — next door to my fa- 
ther’s mansion, by far the best and hand- 
somest in the place. It was some distance 
from Charlotte’s house, where she and her 
widowed mother lived ; — all the way down 
the lime-tree avenue, then over the breezy 
common, besides traversing the principal 
and only street, which terminated in the 
village market-place. 

The front of our house was quakerlike, 
in point of neatness and humility. But 
enter I It is not hard to display good taste 
when the banker’s book puts no veto^ on the 
choice gems of furniture, which give the 
finishing touch to the whole. Then pass 
through, and bestow a glance upon our 
living rooms, looking down upon that great- 
est of luxuries, a terraced garden, com- 
manding the country — and not a little of 
that country mine already, — the farm which 
my father had given me, to keep me quiet 
and contented at home. For the closing 
perspective of our view, there was the sea, 
like a bright blue rampart rising before us. 
White-sailed vessels, or self-willed steamers, 
flitted to and fro for our amusement. 

We tripped down the terrace-steps, and 
of course looked in upon the little artificial 
grotto to the right, which I had caused to 
be lined throughout with foreign shells and 


glittering spars, — more gifts from my ever- 
bountiful father. Charlotte and I went 
laughingly along the straight gravel walk, 
flanked on each side with a regiment of 
dahlias ; that led us to the little gate, open- 
ing to give us admission to my fathei^s own 
pleasure-ground and orchard. 

The dear old man was rejoiced to receive 
us. A daughter was what he so long had 
wished for. We hardly knew whether to 
smile, or weep for joy, as we all sat together 
on the same rustic bench, overshadowed by 
the tulip-tree, which some one said my fa- 
ther had himself brought from North Ame- 
rica. But of the means by which he became 
ossessed of many of his choicest treasures, 
e never breathed a syllable to me. His 
father, I very well knew, was nothing more 
than a homely farmer, cultivating no great 
extent of not too productive sea-side land ; 
but Charlotte’s lace dress, which she was to 
wear to-morrow — again another present from 
him — was, her mother proudly pronounced, 
valuable and handsome enough for a princess. 

Charlotte half whispered, half said aloud, 
that she had no fear now that Richard Le- 
roy, her boisterous admirer, would dare to 
attempt his reported threat to carry her off 
to the continent in his cutter. Richard’s 
name made my father frown, so we said no 
more ; we lapsed again into that dreamy 
state of silent enjoyment, which was the 
best expression of our happiness. 

Leroy’s father was called a farmer; but 
on our portion of the English coast there 
are many things that are well understood 
rather than clearly and distinctly expressed ; 
and no one had ever enlightened my igno- 
rance. My father was on speaking terms 
with him, that was all ; courteous, but dis- 
tant; half timid, half mysterious. He dis- 
couraged my childish intimacy with Rich- 
ard ; yet he did not go so far as to forbid it. 


70 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


Once, when I urged him to allow me to 
accompany young Leroy in his boat, to fish 
in the Channel one calm and bright sum- 
mer morning, he peremptorily answered, 
“ No ! I do not wish you to learn to be a 
smuggler/' But then, he instantly checked 
himself, and afterwards was more anxious 
and kind to me than ever. Still Richard 
and I continued playfellows until we grew 
up, and both admired Charlotte. He would 
have made a formal proposal for her hand, 
if the marked discouragement of her family 
had not shut out every opportunity. This 
touched his pride, and once made him de- 
clare, in an off-hand way, that it would cost 
him but very little trouble to land such a 
light cargo as that, some pleasant evening, 
in France, or even on one of the Azore 
Islands, if orange groves and orange blos- 
soms were what my lady cared about. It 
is wonderful how far, and how swiftly, 
heedless words do fly when once they are 
uttered. Such speeches did not close the 
breach, but, instead, laid the first founda- 
tion for one of those confirmed estrange- 
ments which village neighborhoods only 
know. The repugnance manifested by Char- 
lotte's friends was partly caused by the 
mystery which hung to Richard’s ample 
means. The choice was unhesitatingly made 
in my favor. In consequence, as a sort of 
rejected candidate, Richard Leroy really 
did lie, amongst us, under an unexpressed 
and indefinite ban, which was by no means 
likely to be removed by the roystering scorn- 
ful air of superiority with which he mostly 
spoke of, looked at, and treated us. 

Charlotte and I took leave of my father 
on that gray September evening with the 
full conviction that every blessing was in 
store for us which affection and wealth had 
the power to procure. Over the green, and 
up the lime-tree avenue, and then, good- 
night, my lady-love ? Good-night, thus part- 
ing, for the very last time. To-morrow — 
ah 1 think of to-morrow. The quarters of 
the church clock strike half-past nine. 
Good-night, dear mother-in-law. And, once 
more, good-night, Charlotte ! 

It was somewhat early to leave ; but my 
father's plans required it. He desired that 
wm should be married, not at the church of 
the village where we all resided, but at 
one distant a short walk, in which he took 
a peculiar interest — where he had selected 
the spot for a family burial-place, and where 
he wished the family registers to be kept. 
It was a secluded hamlet ; and my father 
had simply made the request that I would 
lodge for awhile at a farm-house there, in 
order that the wedding might be performed 
at the place he fixed his heart upon. My 
duty and my interest were to obey. 

“Good night, Charlotte," had not long 
been uttered, before I w'as fairly on the way 
to my temporary home. Our village, and 


its few scattered lights, were soon left be< 
hind, and I then was upon the open down, 
walking on with a springing step. On one 
side was spread the English Channel : and 
from time to time I could mark the appear- 
ance' of the light at Cape Grinez, on the 
French coast opposite. There it was, coming 
and going, flashing out and dying away, 
with never-ceasing coquetry. The cliff lay 
between my path and the sea. There was 
no danger ; for, although the moon was not 
up, it was bright starlight. I knew every 
inch of the way as well as I did my father's 
garden walks. In September, however, 
mists will rise ; and, as I approached the 
valley, there came the offspring of the pretty 
stream which ran through it, something like 
a light cloud running along the ground be- 
fore the wind. Is there a night fog coming 
on ? Perhaps there may be. If so, better 
steer quite clear of the cliff, by means of a 
gentle circuit inland. It is quite impossible 
to miss the valley ; and, once in the valley, 
it is equally difficult to miss the hamlet, 
Richard Leroy has been frequently back- 
ward and forward the last few evenings : it 
would be strange if we should chance to 
meet here, and on such an occasion. 

On, and still on, cheerily. In a few 
minutes more I shall reach the farm, and 
then, to pass one more solitary night is 
almost a pleasurable delay, a refinement in 
happiness. I could sing and dance for joy. 
Yes, dance all alone, on this elastic turf! 
There : just one foolish caper ; just one 

Good God ! is this not the shock of an 
earthquake ? I hasten to advance another 
step, but the ground beneath me quivers 
and sinks. I grasp at the side of the yawn- 
ing pitfall, but grasp in vain. Down, down, 
down, I fall headlong. 

When my senses returned, and I could 
look about me, the moon had risen, and was 
shining in at the treacherous hole through 
which I had fallen. A glance was only too 
sufficient to explain my position. Why had 
I always so foolishly refused to allow the 
farmer to meet me half way, and accompany 
me to his house every evening; knowing, 
as I did know, how the chalk and limestone 
of the district had been undermined in cata- 
combs, sinuous and secret, for wells, flint, 
manure, building materials, and other pur- 
poses ? My poor father and Charlotte ! 

Patience. It can hardly be possible that 
now, on the eve of marriage, I am suddenly 
doomed to a lingering death. The night 
must be passed here, and daylight will show 
some means of escape. I will lie down on 
this heap of earth that fell under me. 

Amidst despairing thoughts, and a hideous 
waking nightmare, daylight slowly came. 

The waning moon had not revealed the 
extremity of my despair; but now it was 
clearly visible that I had fallen double the 
height I supposed. But for the turf which 


NINE NEW STORIES BY 

had fallen under me, I must have been killed 
on the spot. The hole was too large for me 
to creep up, by pressing against it with my 
back and knees ; and there were no friendly 
knobs or protuberances visible up its smooth 
sides. The chasm increased in diameter as 
it descended, like an inverted funnel. ‘ I 
might possibly climb up a wall ; but could I 
creep along a ceiling. 

I shouted as I lay ; no one answered. I 
shouted again — and again. Then I thought 
that too much shouting would exhaust my 
strength, .and unfit me for the task of mount- 
ing. I measured with my eye the distances 
from stratum to stratum of each well-marked 
layer of chalk. And then, the successive 
beds of flint — they gave me the greatest 
hopes. If foot-holes could only b^e cut ! 
Though the feat was difficult, it might be 
practicable. The attempt must be made. 

I arose, stiff and bruised. No matter. 
The first layer of flints was not more than 
seven or eight feet overhead. Those once 
reached, I could secure a footing, and obtain 
a first starting-place for escape. I tried to 
climb to them with my feet and hands. 
Impossible ! the crumbling wall would not 
support half my weight. As fast as I at- 
tempted to get handhold or footing, it fell in 
fragments to the ground. 

But, a better thought — to dig it away, and 
make a mound so high that, by standing on 
it, I could manage to reach the flint with my 
hands. I had my knife to help me ; and, 
after much hard work, my object was ac- 

3 1ished and I got within reach of the 

My hands had firm hold of the horizontal 
flint. They were cut with clinging ; but I 
found that, by raising myself, and then 
thrusting my feet into the chalk and marl, 
I could support myself with one hand only, 
leaving the other free to work. I did work ; 
clearing away the chalk above the flint, so 
as to give me greater standing-room. At 
last, I thought I might venture upon the 
ledge itself. By a supreme effort, I reached 
the shelf; but moisture had made the chalk 
unctuous and slippery to the baffled grasp. 
It was in vain to think of mounting higher, 
with no point of ' support, no firm footing. 
A desperate leap acoss the chasm afforded 
not the slightest hope ; because, even if suc- 
cessful, I could not for one moment maintain 
the advantage gained. I was determined to 
remain on the ledge of flint. Another mo- 
ment, and a rattling on the floor soon taught 
my powerlessness. Down sunk the chalk 
beneath my weight ; and the stony table fell 
from its fixture, only just failing to crush 
me under it. Stunned and cut, and bruised, 
I spent some time prostrated by half-con- 
scious but acute sensations of misery. Sleep, 
which as yet I had not felt, began tt) steal 
over me, but could gain no mastery. With 
each moment of incipient unconsciousness, 


THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 71 

Charlotte was presented to me, first, in her 
wedding-dress ; next, on our terrace, beckon- 
ing me gaily from the garden below : then, 
we were walking arm-in-arm in smiling con- 
versation ; or seated happily together in my 
father^s library. But the full consciousness 
which rapidly succeeded presented each mo- 
ment the hideous truth. It was now broad 
day ; and I realised Charlotte's sufferings. 
I beheld her awaiting me in her bridal dress ; 
now hastening to the window, and straining 
her sight over the valley, in the hope of my 
approach ; now stricken down by despair afc 
my absence. My father, too, whose life had 
been always bound up in mine I These 
fancies destroyed my power of thohght. I 
felt wild and frenzied. I raved and shouted, 
and then listened, knowing no answer could 
come. 

But an answer did come: a maddening 
answer. The sound of bells, dull, dead, and 
in my hideous well-hole, just distinguishable. 
They rang out my marriage-peal. AYhy 
was I not buried alive when I first fell ? 

I could have drunk blood, in my thirst, 
had it been offered to me. Die I must, I 
felt full well ; but let me not die with my 
mouth in flame? Then came the struggle 
of sleep ; and then fitful, tantalizing dreams. 
Charlotte appeared to me plucking grapes, 
and dropping them playfully into my 
mouth ; or catching water in the hollow of 
her hand, from the little cascade in our 
grotto, and I drank. But hark! drip, drip, 
and again drip ! Is this madness still ? No 
There must be water oozing somewhere out 
of the sides of this detested hole. Where 
the treacherous wall is slimiest, where the 
green patches are brightest and widest 
spread on the clammy sides of my living 
sepulchre, there will be the spot to dig and 
to search. * 

Again the knife. Every blow gives a 
more dead and hollow sound. The chalk 
dislodged is certainly not moister ; but the 
blade sticks fast into wood — the wood of a 
cask ; something slowly begins to trickle 
down. It is brandy! 

Brandy ! shall I taste it ? Yet, why not? 
I did; and soon for a time remembered 
nothing. 

I retained a vivid and excited conscious- 
ness up to one precise moment, which might 
have been marked by a stop-watch, and then 
all outward things were shut out, as sud- 
denly as if a lamp had been extinguished. 
A long and utter blank succeeded. I have 
no further recollection either of the duration 
of time, or of any bodily suffering. Had I 
died by alcoholic poison — and it is a miracle 
the brandy did not kill me — then would 
have been the end of my actual and con 
scious existence. My senses were dead. 
If what happened afterwards had occurred 
at that time, there would have been no story 
for you to listen to. 


72 DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


Once more, a burning thirst. Hunger 
had entirely passed away. I looked up, and 
all was dark ; not even the stars or the 
cloudy sky were to be seen at the opening 
of my cavern. A shower of earth and heavy 
stones fell upon me as I lay. I still was 
barely awake and conscious, and a groan 
was the only evidence which escaped me 
that I had again recovered the use of my 
senses. 

“ Halloa ! What’s that down there ?” 
said a voice, whose tone was familiar to me. 
I uttered a faint but frantic cry. 

I heard a moment’s whispering, and the 
hollow echo of departing footsteps, and then 
all was still again. The voice overhead 
once more addressed me. 

“ Courage, George ; keep up your spirits ! 
In two minutes I will come and haul you. 
Don’t you know me ?” 

I then did know that it could be no other 
than my old rival, Richard Leroy. Before 
I could collect my thoughts, a light glim- 
mered against one side of the well ; and then, 
in the direction opposite the fallen table of 
flint, and just over it, Richard appeared, 
with a lantern in one hand, and a rope tied 
to a stick across it in the other. 

“ Have you strength enough left to sit 
upon this, and to hold by the rope while I 
haul you up ?” 

“ I think I have,” I said. I got the stick 
under me, and held by the rope to keep 
steady on my seat. Richard planted his 
feet firmly on the edge of his standing-place, 
and hauled me up. By a sleight of hand 
and an effort of strength, in which I was too 
weak to render him the least assistance, he 
landed me at the mouth of a subterranean 
gallery opening into the well. I could just 
see, on looking back, that if I had only 
maintained my position on the ledge of flint, 
and improved it a little, I might, by a daring 
and vigorous leap, have sprung to the en- 
trance of this very gallery. But those ideas 
were now useless. I was so thoroughly 
worn out that I could scarcely stand, and an 
entreaty for water preceded even my ex- 
pression of thanks. 

“ You shall drink your fill in one instant, 
and I am heartily glad to have helped you ; 
but first let me mention one thing. It is 
understood that yo« keep my secret. You 
cannot leave this place — unless I blindfold 
YOU, which would be an insult— without 
learning the way to return to it ; and, of 


course, what you see along the galleries are 
to you nothing but shadows and dreams* 
Have I your promise ? 

I was unable to make any other reply 
than to seize his hand, and burst into tears. 
How I got from the caverns to the face of 
the cliff, how thence to the beach, the seclu- 
ded hamlet, and the sleeping village,^ does 
really seem to my memory like a vision. 
On the way across the downs, Leroy stopped 
once or twice, more for the sake of resting 
my aching limbs, than of taking breath or 
repose himself. During those intervals, he 
quietly remarked to me how prejudiced and 
unfair we had all of us been to him ; that as 
for Charlotte, he considered her as a child, 
a little sister, almost even as a baby play- 
thing. She was not the woman for him; 
he, for his part, liked a girl with a little 
more of the devil about her. No doubt he 
could have carried her off ; and no doubt she 
would have loved him desperately a fort- 
night afterwards. But, when he had once 
got her, what should he have done with 
such a blue-eyed milk-and-water angel as 
that I Nothing serious to annoy us had 
ever entered his head. And my father 
ought not quite to forget the source of his 
own fortune, and hold himself aloof from 
his e(jual8; although he might be lying 
quiet in harbor at present. Really, it was 
a joke, that, instead of eloping with the 
bride, he should be bringing home the 
eloped bridegroom I 

I fainted when he carried me into my 
father’s house, and I remembered no more 
than his temporary adieu. But afterwards, 
all went on slowly and surely. My father 
and Richard became good friends, and the 
old gentleman acquired such influence over 
him, that Leroy’s “ pleasure trips” soon be- 
came rare, and finally ceased altogether. At 
the last run, he brought a foreign wife over 
with him, and nothing besides — a Dutch 
woman of great beauty and accomplish- 
ments ; who, as he said, was as fitting 
a helpmate for him, as Charlotte, he ac- 
knowledged, was for me. He also took 
a neighboring parish church and its appur- 
tenances into favor, and settled down as a 
landsman within a few miles of us. And, 
if our families continue to go on in the 
friendly way they have done for the last few 
years, it seems likely that a Richard may 
conduct a Charlotte, to enter their namei 
together in a favorite register book. 


THE COLONEL’S STOEY 


Until I was fifteen I lived at home with 
my widowed mother and two sisters. My 
mother was the widow of an officer, who was 
killed in one of the battles with Hyder Ali, 
and enjoyed a pension from the Indian Gov- 
ernment. I was the youngest; and soon 
after my fifteenth birthday she died sud- 
denly. My sisters went to India on the in- 
vitation of a distant relation of my mother ; 
and I was sent to school, where I was very 
unhappy. You will, therefore, easily im- 
agine with what pleasure I received a visit 
from a handsome jovial old gentleman, who 
told me that he was my father's elder half- 
brother ; that they had been separated by a 
quarrel early in life, but that now, being a 
widower and childless, he had found me out, 
and determined to adopt me. 

The truth was, the old man loved com- 
pany ; and that as his chief income — a large 
one — was derived from a mine, near which 
he lived, in a very remote part of the coun- 
try, he was well pleased to have a young 
.lompanion who looked like a gentleman, and 
could be useful as carver, cellar-keeper, and 
secretary. 

Installed in his house, a room was assigned 
to me, and I had a servant, and a couple of 
excellent horses. He made me understand 
that I need give myself no further anxiety 
on the subject of my future, that I might 
abandon the idea of proceeding to India in 
the Company's service, where a cadetship 
had been secured to me ; and that so long as 
I conformed to his ways, it was no matter 
whether I studied or not ; in fact, it was no 
natter what I did. 

Some time after becoming thus settled at 
Beechgrove Hall, my.uncle's attacks of gout, 
in spite of the generous living he adopted as 
a precaution, became so severe, that he was 
inable to stir out except in a wheeled chair, 
and it was with difficulty that he was lifted 
occasionally into his carriage. The conse- 
quence was, that to me all his business 
naturally fell, and although he grumbled at 
losing my society and attention, he was 
obliged to send me to London to watch the 
progress of a canal bill, in which he was 
deeply interested. It was my first visit to 
London. I was well provided with intro- 
ductions and with funds. My uncle’s busi- 
ness occupied me in the morning, for I 
dreaded his displeasure too much to neglect 
it; but in the evenings I plunged into every 
amusement, with all the keen zest of novelty 
and youth. 


I cannot say that up to that period I had 
never been in love. My uncle had twice 
seriously warned me that if I made a fool of 
myself for anything less than a large for- 
tune, he would never forgive me. “ If, Sir,” 
he said, when, on the second occasion, he 
saw me blush and tremble — for I was too 
proud and too self-willed to bear patiently 
such control — “If, Sir, you like to make an 
ass of yourself for a pretty face, like Miss 
Willington, with her three brothers and five 
sisters, half of whom you'd have to keep, 
you may do it with your own money ; you 
shall not do it with mine.” 

I told my only confidant. Dr. Creeleigh, of 
this ; he answered me, “ You have only 
about a hundred and twenty a year of your 
own from the estate you inherited from your 
father, and you are living with your horses 
and dogs at the rate of five hundred a year. 
How would you like to see your wife and 
children dressed and housed like the curate 
— poor Mr. Serge. Your uncle can’t livQ 
for ever.” The argument was enough for 
me, who had only found Clara AYillington 
the best partner in a country dance. My 
time was not come. 

My lodgings in London were in a large, 
old-fashioned house in Westminster — for- 
merly the residence of a nobleman — which 
was a perfect caravanserai, in the number 
and variety of its inmates. The best rooms 
were let to Members of Parliament and per- 
sons like myself ; but, in the upper floor, 
many persons of humbler means but genteel 
pretensions had rooms. Here, I frequently 
met on the stairs, carrying a roll of music, 
a tall, elegant female figure, dressed in black, 
and closely veiled ; sometimes, when I had 
to step on one side, a slight bow was ex- 
changed, but for several weeks that was all. 
At length my curiosity was piqued ; the 
neat ankles, a small white hand, a dark curl 
peeping out of the veil, made me anxious to 
know more. 

Enquiries discreetly applied to Mrs. Gough, 
the housekeeper, told me enough to make me 
wish to know still more. Her name was 
Laura Delacourt ; not more than twenty or 
twenty-two years of age ; she had lived four 
years previously with her husband in the 
best apartments in the house in great luxury 
for one winter. Mr. Delacourt was a French- 
man and a gambler ; very handsome, and 
very dissipated ; it seemed as if it was her 
fortune they were spending. Mrs. Gough 
said it was enough to make one's heart break 


74 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


to see that young pretty creature sitting up 
in her ball dress when her husband had sent 
her home alone, and remained to play until 
daylight. They went away, and nothing 
more was heard of them until just before 
my arrival. About that time Madame Dela- 
court became very humble, had taken a 
room on the third floor ; had only men- 
tioned her husband to say he was dead, and 
now apparently lived by giving music les- 
sons. 

It would be too long a story to tell how, 
by making the old housekeeper my ambas- 
sador, by anonymous presents of fruit and 
game, by ofiering to take music lessons, and 
by professing to require large quantities of 
music copied, I made first the acquaintance, 
and then became the intimate friend of 
Madame Delacourt. While keeping me at 
a freezing distance, and insisting on always 
having present at our interviews a half-ser- 
vant, half-companion, of that indescribable 
age, figure, and appearance that is only 
grown in France, she step by step confided 
to me her history. An English girl, born 
in France, the daughter of a war prisoner 
at Verdun, married to the very handsome 
Monsieur Delacourt, at sixteen, by a mother 
who was herself anxious to make a second 
marriage. In twelve months, Monsieur De- 
lacourt had expended her small fortune, and 
deserted her for an opera dancer of Wice 
her age. 

All this, told with a charming accent in 
melancholy tones — she looking on me sadly 
with a face which for expression, I have 
never seen equalled — produced an impres- 
sion which those only can understand who 
have been themselves young and in love. 

For weeks this went on, without one sign 
of encouragement on her part, except that 
she allowed me to sit with her in the even- 
ings, while her bonne faddled at some inter- 
minable work, and she sang — 0 ! how di- 
vinely I She would receive no presents direct- 
ly from me ; but I sent them anonymously, 
and dresses and furniture and costly trifles 
and books reached her daily. I spoke at last ; 
and then she stopped me with a cold faint 
smile, saying, “Cease! I must not listen to 
ou.” She pleaded her too recent widow- 
ood, but I persevered ; and, after a time, 
conquered. 

She knew my small fortune and large ex- 
pectations ; she knew that our marriage must 
be a secret ; but she was willing to live any- 
where, and was well content to quit a life in 
which she had known so much trouble. 

Before the session ended we were married 
in an obscure church in the City, with no one 
present but the clerk and the pew-opener. 
We spent a few following days at a small 
inn, in a fishing village. Then I had to 
leave town and carry out the plan I had 
proposed. I left my wife in lodgings, under 
an assumed name, at a town within forty 


miles of our residence. I had some timo 
previously persuaded my uncle to let mo 
take a lease from Lord Mardall of some 
untouched mineral ground, on very favorable 
terms, in a wild, thinly-peopled district, 
which was only visited by the gentry for 
field sports. This afibrded me an excuse 
for being away from home one or two days 
every week. 

Not far from the mines was the remains 
of a forest, and coverts abounding in game. 
In a little sloping dell, one of Lord Mardall’s 
ancestors had built a small shooting-lodge, 
and one of the keepers in charge had planted 
there fruit trees and ornamental trees, for 
which he had a taste, being the son of a 
gardener. On this wild nest, miles away 
from any other residence, I had fixed my 
mind. It was half in ruins, and there \va8 
no difficulty in obtaining possession. With 
money and workmen at my command, very 
soon a garden smiled, and a fountain bub- 
bled at Orchard Spring ; roses and climbing 
plants covered the steep hill side, and the 
small stone cottage was made, at a slight 
expense, a wonder of comfort. The cage 
being ready I brought my bird there. The 
first months were all joy, all happiness. 
My uncle only complained that I had lost 
my jovial spirits. 

I counted every day until the day when I 
could mount my horse and set off for the 
new mines. Five and twenty miles to ride 
over a rough mountain road ; two fords to 
cross, often swelled by winter rains ; but 
day or night, moonlight or dark, I dashed 
along, pressing too often my willing horse 
with loose rein up and down steep hills ; aU 
lost in love and anxious thought I rode, 
until in the distance the plashing sound of 
the mountain torrent rolling over our gar* 
den cascade, told me I was near my darling. 

My horse’s footsteps were heard, and be- 
fore I had passed the avenue the door flew 
open, the bright fire blazed out, and Laura 
came forward to receive me in her arms. 

I had begged her to get everything she 
might require from London, and have it 
sent, to avoid all suspicion, to the nearest 
port, and then brought by her own servant, 
a country clown, with a horse and cart ; and 
I had given her a cheque book, signed in 
blank. After a time I saw signs of extrava- 
gance ; in furniture, in dress, but especially 
in jewels. I remonstrated gently, and was 
met first with tears, then sullen fits. I 
learned that Laura had a temper for which 
I was quite unprepared. 

The ice was broken ; no more .pleasant 
holidays at Orchard Spring. The girl, once 
so humble, now assumed a haughty, jealous 
air ; every word was a cause of offence ; I 
never came when wanted, or stayed as long 
as I was required; half my time was spent 
in scenes of reproach, of tears, hysterics, la- 
mentations ; peace was only to be purchased 


75 


NINE NEW STORIES Bi 

by some costly present. Our maid servant, 
a simple country girl, stood amazed; the 
meek angel had become a tigress. I loved 
her still, but feared her ; yet even love began 
to fail before so much violence. A dread- 
ful idea began slowly to intrude itself into 
my mind. Was she tired of me? Was the 
Btory of her life true ? Had she ever loved 
me? The next time that I made up my 
banker’s book, I was shocked to find that, 
in the short time since my last remonstrance, 
Laura had drawn a large sum of money. I 
lost no time in galloping to Orchard Spring. 
She was absent. Where was she? No one 
knew. Severe cross-examination brought 
out that she had been away two days ; I 
had not been expected that week. I thought 
I should have choked. 

In the midst I heard the steps of her 
horse. She came in and confronted me. 
Looking most beautiful and most demonia- 
cal, she defied me ; she threatened to expose 
me to my uncle ; declared she had never 
loved me, but had taken me for a- home. 
At length her frenzy rose to such a height, 
that she struck me. Then all the violent 
pent-up rage of my heart broke out. I 
know not what passed, until I found myself 
galloping furiously across the mountain 
ridge that divided the county. Obliged to 
slacken my pace in passing through a ford, 
some one spoke to me ; how I answered I 
know not. Whatever it was, it was a mad 
answer. 

I listened to nothing, and pressed on my 
weary steed until just before reaching the 
moorland, when, descending into a water- 
course, he fell on his head, throwing me 
over with such force, that for some time I 
lay senseless. I came to myself to find my 

{ )Oor horse standing over me dead lame. I 
ed him on to the inn door, and knocked. It 
was midnight, and I was readily admitted. 
The landlord, when he saw me, started back 
with an exclamation of horror. My face 
and shirt were covered with blood. 

Worn-out, bruised, and exhausted by fa- 
tigue and passion, I slept. I was rudely 
awakened, and found myself in the custody 
of twd constables. Two mounted game- 
keepers, and Lord Mardell had followed and 
traced me to the inn. 

“ On what charge ?” I asked amazed. 
“For murder,” said Lord Mardall. 

“ The lady at Orchard Spring,” said one 
of the gamekeepers. 

I was examined before magistrates ; but 
was unable to give any coherent answers ; 
and was committed to the county jail. My 
uncle remitted me a sum of money for my 
defence, and desired never to see me again. 

I will give you the description of my trial 
from the newspapers. 

The prisoner had clandestinely married a 
lady of great beauty and unknown family, 
probably in station beneath himself, and 


THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 

had placed her under an assumed name in 
a lonely cottage. After a season of affection, 
quarrels had broken out, which, as would bo 
proved by the servant, had constantly in 
creased in violence. On the last occasion 
when the unfortunate victim was seen alive 
by her servant, a quarrel of a most fearful 
description had commenced. It was some- 
thing about money. The servant had been 
so much alarmed, that she had left the cot- 
tage and gone down to her mother’s, a mile 
away over the hill, where she had previously 
been ordered to go to obtain some poultry. 
From something that passed, her mother 
would not allow her to return. It would 
then be proved that Lord Mardall, attracted 
by the howling of *a dog, when out shooting 
the next morning, had entered the open 
door of the cottage, and had there found the 
prisoner’s wife dead, with a severe fracture 
of the skull. The prisoner had been pur- 
sued, from some information as to his usual 
course, and found asleep in the chimney- 
corner of the Moor Inn, his clothes and shirt 
deeply stained with blood. It could be 
proved that he had washed his face and 
hands immediately on entering, and attri- 
buted the blood to the fall from his horse. 
But on examination no cuts were found on 
his person sufficient to cause such an effu- 
sion of blood. 

But when Lord Mardall was called, he 
deposed to two facts which produced a great 
impression in favor of the prisoner. He saw 
the body at five o’clock, and it was scarcely 
cold. He had found in one of the victim’s 
hands a lock of hair, which she had evi- 
dently torn from her assailant in her strug- 
gles ; which had been desperate. He had 
sealed it up, and never let it out of his pos- 
session. The nails of her other hand were 
broken, and were marked with blood. She 
had no rings on either of her hands, though 
she was in the habit of wearing a great 
number ; there were marks of rings, and of 
one which seemed to have been violently 
torn off. A packet of plate had been found 
on the kitchen table, a knife, and a loaf 
marked with blood. 

Counsel were not allowed to speak for the 
defence in those days, and the prisoner was 
not in a condition to speak on the evidence 
against him. Witnesses for the defence 
were called, who proved that the lady wore 
frequently certain peculiar bracelets. The 
prisoner, who seemed stupified by his emo- 
tions, declined to say anything ; but his 
counsel asked the maid-servant, and also the 
farmer who occasionally sold meat to Or- 
chard Spring, if they should know the rings 
and bracelets if they saw them. 

He then called Richard Perkins, jailor of 
the county prison, and asked him these 
questions ; 

“ Had you any prisoner committed about 
the same time as the prisoner at the bar V* 


76 


DICKENS’ NET^' STOBIES. 


“ I had a man called Hay-making Dick, 
for horse-stealing, the day after the dis- 
covery of the murder/^ 

“ Was it a valuable horse V* 

“ No : it was a mare, blind of one eye, 
very old, and with a large fen spavin, I 
knew her well ; used to drive her in the goal 
cart ; but when warm, she was faster than 
anything about.” 

“ Do you suppose Hay-making Dick took 
the mare to sell ?” 

“ Certainly not. She would not fetch a 
crown except to those that knew her. No 
doubt he had been up to some mischief, and 
wanted to get out of the county, only luckily 
he rode against the blacksmith that owned 
the mare and was taken.” 

The judge thought these questions irrele- 
vant ; but, after some conversation, permit- 
ted the examination to go on. 

“ Has Perkins searched the prisoner, and 
has he found anything of value ?” 

The gaoler produced two bracelets, four 
rings — one a diamond hoop, one a seal ring 
— and a canvass wheat-bag containing gold, 
with several French coins. On one of the 
bracelets was engraved “ Charles to Laura,” 
and a date. In answer to another question, 
he had found several severe scratches on 
Dick’s face, made apparently by nails, which 
he declared had been done in an up and 
down fight at Broad-green Fair. Also a 
severe raw scar on his left temple, as if hair 
had been pulled out. 

At this stage of the proceedings, by order 
of the judge, the prisoner Dick was brought 
up. The lock of hair taken by Lord Mar- 


dall from the murdered lady’s hand was 
compared with Dick’s head. It matched 
exactly, although /Dick’s hair had been cut 
short and washed. Then Mr. Monley gave 
evidence, that when he met the prisoner, on 
the night of the murder, immediately after 
he had left the cottage, there certainly was 
no blood on his face or dress. The landlord 
of the Moon Inn was called, and deposed, 
that he found the corn, placed before the 
prisoner’s horse, uneaten and much stained 
with blood. On examining the horse’s 
tongue, he saw that it had been half-bitten 
ofi* in the fall the animal had suffered. No 
doubt the blood had dripped over the young 
Squire. 

, It was a bright moonlight night shining 
in the prisoner’s face. 

The judge summed up for an acquittal, 
and the jury gave a verdict of Not Guilty, 
without leaving the box. 

A week after. Hay-making Dick made an 
attempt to break out of prison, in which he 
knocked out the brains of a turnkey with 
his irons. He was tried and condemned for 
this, and when hope of escape was gone, he 
called a favorite turnkey to him and said, 
“ Bill I killed the Frenchwoman. I knew she 
always had plenty of money and jewels, and 
I watched my opportunity to get ’em.” 

Thus ends the newspaper reports. My 
uncle died of gout in his stomach on the 
day of the trial, and died almost insolvent. 
By Lord Mardall’s influence I received an 
appointment from the East India Company, 
and afterwards a commission in their irre 
gular service. 


THE SCHOLAK’S STORY. 


I PERCEIVE a general fear on the part of 
this pleasant company, that I am going to 
burst into black-letter, and beguile the time 
by being as dry as ashes. No, there is no 
such fear, you can assure me ? I am glad 
to hear it ; but I thought there was. 

At any rate, both to relieve your minds 
and to place myself beyond suspicion, I will 
say at once that my story is a hallad. It 
was taken down, as I am going to repeat it, 
seventy-one years ago, by the mother of the 
person who communicated it to M. Ville- 
marque when he was making his collection 
of Breton Ballads. It is slightly confirmed 
by the chronicles and Ecclesiastical Acts of 
the time ; but no more of them or you really 
will suspect me. It runs, according to my 
version, thus. 


Sole child of her house, a lovely maid. 

In the lordly halls of Rohan played. 

Played till thirteen, when her sire was bent 
To see her Wed; and she gave consent. 

And many a lord of high degree 
Came suing her chosen knight to be ; 

But amongst them all there pleased her none 
Save the noble Count Mathieu alone ; 

Lord of the Castle of Tongoli, 

A princely knight of Italy. 

To him so courteous, true and brave. 

Her heart the maiden freely gave. 

Three years since the day they first were wed 
In peace and in bliss away had sped. 


77 


NINE NEW STORIES BY 

When tidings came on the winds abroad, 

That all were to take the cross of God. 

Then spake the Count, like a noble knight; 

“ Aye first in birth should be first in fight ! 

“ And since to this Paynim war I must, 

Dear cousin, I leave thee here in trust. 

“ My wife and my child I leave to thee ; 

Guard them, good clerk, as thy life for me !” 

Early next mom, from his castle gate, 

As rode forth the knight in bannered state, 

Down the marble steps, all full of fears, 

The lady hied her with moans and tears — 

The loving, sweet lady, sobbing wild — 

And laid on her breast her baby child. 

She ran to her lord with breathless speed. 

As backward he reigned his fiery steed ; 

She caught and she clasped him round the knee ; 
She wept and she prayed him piteously : 

“ Oh stay with me, stay ! my lord, my love ! 

Go not, I beg, by the saints above ; 

“ Leave me not here alone, I pray. 

To weep on your baby’s face alway !” 

The knight was touched -with her sad despair. 
And fondly gazed on her face so fair ; 

And stretched out his hand, and stooping low. 
Raised her up straight to his saddle-bow ; 

And held her pressed to his bosom then. 

And kissed her o’er and o’er agen. 

“'Come, dry these tears, my little Joan; 

A single year will soon be flown !” 

His baby dear in his arms he took. 

And looked on him with a proud, fond look: 

“ My boy, when thou’rt a man,” said he. 

Wilt ride to the wars along with me I” 

Then away he spurred across the plain, 

And old and young they wept amain ; 

Both rich and poor, wept every one ; 

But that same clerk — ah ! he wept none, 

II. 

The treacherous clerk one morning tide. 

With artful speeches the lady plied : 

“ Lo ! ended now is that single year. 

And ended too is the war I hear ; 

“ But yet, thy lord to return to thee, 

Would seem in no haste at all to be. 

« Now, ask of your heart, my lady dear. 

Is there no other might please it here 1 
« Need wives still keep themselves unwed. 

E’en though their husbands should not be dead 1” 
“ Silence ! thou wretched clerk !” cried she, 

“ Thy heart is filled full of sin, I see. 

« When my lord returns, if I whisper him, 

Thou know’st he’ll tear thee limb from limb !” 

As soon as the clerk thus answered she 
He stole to the kennel secretly. 


THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 

He called to the hound so swift and true. 

The hound that his lord loved best, he knew 

It came to his call — leapt up in play ; 

One gash in the throat, and dead it lay. 

As trickled the blood from out the throat. 

He dipped in that red ink and wrote : 

A letter he wrote with a liar’s heed. 

And sent it straight to the camp with speed. 

And these were the words the letter bore : 

“ Dear lord your wife she is fretting sore, 

“ Fretting and grieving, your wife so dear. 

For a sad mischance befallen.here. 

“ Chasing the doe on the mountain-side. 

Thy beautiful greyhound burst and died.” 

The Count so guileless then answer made, 

And thus to his faithless cousin said : 

“Now bid my own little wife, I pray, 

To fret not for this mischance one day. 

“ My hound is dead — well ! money have I 
Another, when I come back, to buy, 

“ Yet she’d better not hunt agen. 

For hunters are oft but wildish men.” 

III. 

The miscreant clerk once more he came. 

As she wept in her bower, to the peerless dame 

“ O lady, with weeping night and day. 

Your beauty is fading fast away.” 

“ And what care I though it fading be. 

When my ovm dear lord comes not to me !” 

“ Thy own dear lord has, I fancy, wed 
Another ere this, or else he’s dead. 

“ The Moorish maidens though dark are fair 
And gold in plenty have got to spare ; 

“ The Moorish chiefs on the battle plain 
Thousands as valiant as he have slain 

“ If he’s wed another — Oh curse, not fret ; 

Or, if he’s dead — why straight forget !” 

“ If he’s wed another I’ll die,” she said ; 

“ And I’ll die likewise, if he be dead !” 

“ In case one chances to lose the key. 

No need for burning the box, I see. 

“ Twere wiser, if I might speak my mind, 

A new and a better key to find.” 

“ Now hold, thou wretched clerk, thy tongue, 
’Tis foul with lewdness — more rotten than dung.” 

As soon as the clerk thus answered she. 

He stole to the stable secretly, 

He looked at his lord’s own favorite steed. 
Unmatched for beauty, for strength and speed ; 
White as an egg, and more smooth to touch 
Light as a bird, and for fire none such ; 

On nought had she fed since she was born. 

Save fine chopped heath and the best of cornu 
Awhile the bonny white mare he eyed. 

Then struck his dirk in her velvet side ; 


78 


DICKENS^ NEW STOKIES. 


And when the bonny white mare lay dead, 
Again to the Count he wrote and said : 

“ Of a fresh mischance I now send word, 

But let it not vex thee much, dear lord ; 

“ Hasting back from a revel last night, 

My lady rode on thy favorite white — 

So hotly rode, it stumbled and fell. 

And broke both legs, as I grieve to tell.” 

The Count then answered, “ Ah ! woe is me 
My bomiy white mare no more to see 1 

“ My mare she has killed ; my hound killed too ; 
Good cousin, now give her counsel true. 

“ Yet scold her not either ; but say from me. 

To no more revels at night must she. 

“ Not horses’ legs alone, I fear. 

But wifely vows may be broken there !” 


IV. 

The clerk a few days let pass and then 
Back to the charge returned agen. 

“ Lady, now yield, or you die !” said he : 

“ Choose which you will — choose speedily !” 

“ Ten thousand deaths would I rather die. 
Than shame upon me my God should cry !” 

The clerk when he saw he nought might gain. 
No more could his smothered wrath contain ; 

So soon as those words had left her tongue, 
His dagger right at her head he flung. 

But swift her white angel, hovering nigh. 
Turned it aside as it flashed her by. 

The lady straight to her chamber flew. 

And bolt and bar behind her drew. 

The clerk his dagger snatched up and shook. 
And grinned with angry ban -dog’s look. 

Down the broad stairs in his rage came he. 
Two steps at a time, two steps and three. 

Then on to the nurse’s room he crept. 

Where softly the winsome baby slept — 

Softly, and sweetly, and all alone ; 

One arm from the silken cradle thrown — 

One little round arm just o’er it laid, 

Folded the other beneath his head ; 

His little white breast ah ! hush ! be still ! 

Poor mother, go now and weep your fill ! 

Away to his room the clerk then sped. 

And wrote a letter in black and red ; 

In haste, post haste, to the Count wrote he ; 

“ There be need, dear lord, sore need of thee ! 

« Oh speed now, speed to thy castle back. 

For all runs riot, and runs to wrack. 

« Thy hound is killed, and thy mare is killed. 
But not for these with grief I’m filled, 

“ Nor is it for these that thou wilt care ; 

Thy darling is dead ! thy son, thy heir ! 


“ The sow she seized and devoured him all. 
While thy wife was dancing at the ball ; 

“ Dancing there with the miller gay. 

Her young gallant, as the people say.” 

r. 

That letter came to the valiant knight, 
Hastening home from the Paynim fight ; 

With trumpet sound, from the Eastern strand 
Hastening home to his own dear land. 

So soon as he read the missive through. 
Fearful to see his anger grew. 

The scroll in his mailed hand be took. 

And crumpled it up with furious look ; 

To bits with his teeth he tore the sheet, 

And spat them out at his horse’s feet. 

« Now quick to Brittany, quick, my men, 

The homes that you love to see again ! 

“Thou loitering squire ! ride yet more qviick, 
Or my lance shall teach thee how to prick !” 

But when he stood at his castle gate. 

Three lordly blows he struck it straight ; 

Three angry blows he struck thereon. 

Which made them tremble every one. 

The clerk he heard, and down he hied, 

And opened at once the portal wide, 

“ Oh cursed cousin, that this should be ! 

Did I not trust my wife to thee 1” 

His spear down the traitor’s throat he drove, 
Till out at his back the red point clove. 

Then up he rushed to the bridal bower. 

Where drooped his lady like some pale flower 

And ere she could speak a single word. 

She fell at his feet beneath his sword. 

VI. 

“ O holy priest ! now tell to me 
What didst thou up at the castle see 1” 

“ I saw a grief and a terror more 
Than ever I saw on earth before. 

“ I saw a martyr give up her breath. 

And her slayer sorrowing e’en to death.” 

“ O holy priest ! now tell to me 

What didst thou down at the crossway see'!” 

“ I saw a corpse that all mangled lay. 

And the dogs and ravens made their prev ” 

“ 0 holy priest ! now tell to me 

What didst thou next in the churchyard see 

“ By a new-made grave, in soft moonlight, 

I saw a fair lady clothed in white ; 

“ Nursing a little child on her knee — 

A dark red wound on his breast had he. 

“ A noble hound lay couched at her right, 

A steed at her left of bonniest white ; 


79 


NINE NEW STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 


« The first a gash in his throat had wide, 
And this as deep a stab in his side. 

“ They raised their heads to the lady’s knee, 
And they licked their soft hands tenderly, 

** She gently patted their necks, the while 
Smiling, though stilly, a fair sweet smile. 


“ The child, as it fain its love would speak, 
Caressed and fondled its mother’s cheek, 

« But down went the moon then silently. 
And my eyes no more their forms could see ; 

“ But I heard a bird from out the skies 
Warbling a song of Paradise !” 


NOBODY’ 

He lived on the bank of a mighty river, 
broad and deep, which was always silently 
rolling on to a vast undiscovered ocean. It 
had rolled on, ever since the world began. It 
had changed its course sometimes, and 
turned into new channels, leaving its old 
ways dry and barren ; but it had ever been 
upon the flow, and ever was to flow until 
Time shall be no more. Against its strong, 
unfathomable stream, nothing made head. 
No living creature, no flower, no leaf, no 
particle of animate or inanimate existence, 
ever strayed back from the undiscovered 
ocean. The tide of the river set resistlessly 
towards it ; and the tide never stopped, 
any more than the earth stops in its circling 
round the sun. 

He lived in a busy place, and he worked 
very hard to live. He had no hope of ever 
being rich enough to live a month without 
hard work, but he was quite content, God 
knows, to labor with a cheerful will. He 
was one of an immense family, all of whose 
eons and daughters gained their daily bread 
by daily work, prolonged from their rising 
up betimes until their lying down at night. 
Beyond this destiny he had no prospect, 
and he sought none. 

There was over-much drumming, trum- 
eting, and speechmaking, in the neighbor- 
ood where he dwelt ; but he had nothing 
to do with that. Such clash and ' uproar 
came from the Bigwig family, at the unac- 
countable proceedings of which race he 
marvelled much. They set up the strongest 
statues, in iron, marble, bronze, and brass, 
before his door; and darkened his house 
with the legs and tails of uncouth images 
of horses. He wondered what it all meant, 
smiled in a rough good-humored way he 
had, and kept at his hard work. 

The Bigwig -family (composed of all the 
noisiest) had undertaken to save him the 
trouble of thinking for himself, and to 
manage him and his affairs. “ Why truly,” 
said he, “ I have little time upon my 
hands ; and if you will be so good as to 
take care of me in return for the money I 
pay over” — for the Bigwig family were not 
above his money — “ I shall be relieved and 


S STOEY. 

much obliged, considering that you know 
best.” Hence the drumming, trumpeting, 
and speechmaking, and the ugly images of 
horses which he was expected to fall down 
and worship. 

“ I don’t understand all this,” said he, 
rubbing his furrowed brow confusedly. 
“ But it has a meaning, maybe, if I could 
find it out.” 

“ It means,” returned the Bigwig family, 
suspecting something of what he said, 
“honor and glory in the highest, to the 
highest merit.” 

“ Oh I” said he. And he was glad to hear 
that. 

But, when he looked among the images in 
iron, marble, bronze, and brass, he failed to 
find a rather meritorious countryman of his, 
once the son of a Warwickshire wool-dealer, 
or any single countryman whomsoever, of 
that kind. He could find none of the men 
whose knowledge had rescued him and his 
children from terrific and disfiguring dis- 
ease, whose boldness has raised his fore- 
fathers from the condition of serfs, whose 
wise fancy had opened a new and high ex- 
istence to the humblest, whose skill had 
filled the working man’s world with accu- 
mulated wonders. Whereas, he did find 
others whom he knew no good of, and even 
others whom -he knew much ill of. 

“Humph!” said he. “I don’t quite un- 
derstand it.” 

So, he went home, and sat down by his fire- 
side to get it out of his mind. 

Now, his flre-side was a bare one, all 
hemmed in by blackened streets ; but it 
was a precious place to him. His children, 
stunted in their growth, bore traces of un- 
wholesome nurture ; but they had beauty in 
his sight. Above all other things, it was 
an earnest desire of this man’s soul that his 
children should be taught. “ If I am some- 
times misled,” said he, “ for want of know- 
ledge, at least let them know better, and 
avoid my mistakes. If it is hard to me to 
reap the harvest of pleasure, and instruction 
that is stored in books, let it be easier to 
them.” 

But the Bigwig family broke into violent 


80 


DICKENS^ NEW STOKIES. 


family quarrels concerning what it was law- 
ful to teach to this mau^s children. Some 
of the family insisted on such a thing being 
primary and indispensable above all other 
things ; and others of the family insisted on 
such another thing being primary and in- 
dispensable above all other things ; and the 
Bigwig family, rent into factions, wrote 
pamphlets, held convocations, delivered 
charges, orations, and all varieties of dis- 
courses; impounded one another in courts 
Lay and courts Ecclesiastical ; threw dirt, 
exchanged pummelings, and fell together by 
the ears in unintelligible animosity. Mean- 
while, this man, in his short evening 
snatches at his fire-side, saw the demon 
Ignorance arise there, and take his children 
to itself. He saw his daughter perverted 
into a heavy, slatternly drudge ; he saw his 
son go moping down the ways of low sensu- 
ality, to brutality and crime ; he saw the 
dawning light of intelligence in the eyes of 
his babies so changing into cunning and 
suspicion, that he could have rather wished 
them idiots. 

“I don’t understand this any the better,” 
said he ; but I think it cannot be right. 
Nay, by the clouded Heaven above me, I 
protest against this as my wrong !” 

Becoming peaceable again (for his passion 
was usually short-lived, and his nature kind), 
he looked about him on his Sundays and holi- 
days, and he saw how much monotony and 
weariness there was, and thence how drunk- 
enness arose with all its train of ruin. Then 
he appealed to the Bigwig family, and said, 
“We are a laboring people, and I have a 
glimmering suspicion in me that laboring 
people of whatever condition were made — 
by a higher intelligence than yours, as I 
poorly understand it — to be in need of men- 
tal refreshment and recreation. See what 
we fall into, when we rest without it. Come I 
Amuse me harmlessly, show me something, 
give me an escape !” 

But here the Bigwig family fell into a 
state of uproar absolutely deafening. When 
some few voices were faintly heard, pro- 
posing to show him the wonders of the world, 
the greatness of creation, the mighty changes 
of time, the workings of nature and the 
beauties of art — to show him these things, 
that is to say, at any period of his life when 
he could look upon them — there arose 
among the Bigwigs such roaring and raving, 
such pulpiting and petitioning, such maun- 
dering and memorialising, such name-calling 
and dirt- thro wing, such a shrill wind of par- 
liamentary questioning and feeble replying 
— where “ I dare not” waited on “ I would” 
— that the poor fellow stood aghast, staring 
wildly around. 

“ Have I provoked all this,” said he, with 
his hands to his afirighted ears, “ by what 
was meant to bo an innocent request, plainly 
arising out my familiar experience, and the 


common knowledge of all men who choose 
to open their eyes ? I don’t understand, and 
I am not understood. What is to come of 
such things?” 

He was bending over his work, often ask- 
ing himself the question, when the news 
began to spread that a pestilence had ap- 
peared among the laborers, and was slaying 
them by thousands. Going forth to look 
about him, he soon found this to be true. 
The dying and the dead were mingled in the 
close and tainted houses among which his 
life was passed. New poison was distilled 
into the always murky, always sickening 
air. The robust and the weak, old age and 
infancy, the father and the mother, all were 
stricken down alike. 

What means of fight had he? He re- 
mained where he was, and saw those who 
were dearest to him die. A kind preacher 
came to him, and would have said some 
prayers to soften his heart in his gloom, but 
he replied: 

“ 0 what avails it, missionary, to come to 
me, a man condemned to residence in this 
foetid place, where every sense becomes 
a torment, and where every minute of my 
numbered days is new mire added to the 
heap under which I lie oppressed! But 
give me my first glimpse of Heaven, through 
a little of its light and air ; give me pure 
water ; help me to be clean ; lighten this 
heavy atmosphere and heavy life, in which 
our spirits sink, and we become the indiffer- 
ent and callous creatures you too often see 
us ; gently and kindly take the bodies of 
those who die among us, out of the small 
room where we grow to be so familiar with 
the awful change that even its sanctity is 
lost to us ; and. Teacher, then I will hear — ■ 
none know better than you, how willingly 
— of Him whose thoughts were so much with 
the poor, and who had compassion for all 
human sorrow I” 

He was at his work again, solitary and 
sad, when his Master came and stood near 
to him, dressed in black. He, also, had 
suffered heavily. His young wife, his beau- 
tiful and good young wife, was dead ; so, 
too, his only child. . 

“ Master, ’tis hard to bear — I know it— - 
but be comforted. I would give you com- 
fort, if I could. 

The Master thanked him from his heart, 
but said he, “ 0 you laboring men ! The ca- 
lamity began among you. If you had but 
lived more healthily and decently, I should 
not be the widowed and bereft mourner that 
I am this day.” 

“Master,” returned the other, shaking 
his head, “I have be^un to understand a 
little that most calamities will come from 
us, as this one did, and that none will stop 
at our poor doors, until we are united with 
that great squabbling family yonder, to do 
the things that are right. We cannot livo 


81 


NINE NEW STORIES BY 

Iiealthily and decently, unless they who 
undertook to manage us provide the means. 
We cannot he instructed, unless they will 
teach us ; we cannot he rationally amused, 
unless they will amuse us ; we cannot hut 
have some false gods of our own, while they 
set up so many of theirs in all the public 
places. The evil consequences of imperfect 
instruction, the evil consequences of per- 
nicious neglect, the evil consequences of 
unnatural restraint and the denial of hu- 
manizing enjoyments, will all come from us, 
and none of them will stop with us. They 
will spread far and wide. They always 
do ; they always have done— just like the 
pestilence. I understand so much, I think, 
at last.^' 

But the Master said again, “ 0 you labor- 
ing men I how seldom do we ever hear 
of you, except in connection with some 
trouble I” 

“ Master,” he replied, “ I am Nobody, and 
little likely to be heard of (nor yet much 
wanted to be heard of perhaps), except when 
there is some trouble. But it never begins 
with me, and it can never end with me. 
As sure as Death, it comes down to me, and 
it goes up from me.” 

There was so much reason in what he 
said, that the Bigwig family, getting wind 
of it, and being horribly frightened by the 
late desolation, resolved to unite with him 
to do the things that were right — at all 
events, so far as the said things were asso- 
ciated with the direct prevention, humanly 


THE CHRISTMAS FIRE. 

speaking, of another pestilence. But, as 
their fear wore off, which it soon began to 
do, they resumed their falling out among 
themselves, and did nothing. Consequently 
the scourge appeared again — ^low down as 
before, and spread avengingly upward as 
before, and carried off vast numbers of the 
brawlers. ^ But not a man among them ever 
admitted, if in the least degree he ever per- 
ceived, that he had anything to do with it. 

So Nobody lived and died in the old, old, 
old way ; and this, in the main, is the whole 
of Nobody’s story. 

Had he no name, you ask? Perhaps it 
was Legion. It matters little what his 
name was. Let us call him Legion. 

If you were ever in the Belgian villages 
near the field of Waterloo, you will have 
seen, in some quiet little church, a monu- 
ment erected by faithful companions in arms 
to the memory of Colonel A, Major B, Caj^ 
tains C, D and E, Lieutenants F and G, 
Ensigns H, I and J, seven non-commissioned 
officers, and one hundred and thirty rank 
and file, who fell in the discharge of their 
duty on the memorable day. The story of 
Nobody is the story of the rank and file of 
the earth. They bear their share of the 
battle ; they have their part in the victory ; 
they fall ; they leave no name but in the 
mass. The march of the proudest of us 
leads to the dusty way by which they go. 
01 Let us think of them this year at the 
Christmas fire, and not forget them when it 
is burnt out. 


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HAED times: 


CHAPTER I. 

“Now, what I want is, Facts. Teach these 
boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone 
are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and 
root out everything else. You can only form 
the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: 
nothing else will ever be of any service to 
them. This is the principle on which I bring 
up my own children, and this is the principle 
on which I bring up these children. Stick to 
Facts, sir!” 

The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous 
vault of a school-room, and the speaker’s 
square fore- finger emphasised his observations 
by underscoring every sentence with a line 
on the schoolmaster’s sleeve. The emphasis 
was helped by the speaker’s square wall of a 
forehead, which had his eyebrows for its base, 
while his eyes found commodious cellarage in 
two dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. — 
The ‘emphasis was helped by the speaker’s 
mouth, which was wide, thin, and hard set. 
The emphasis was helped by the speaker’s 
voice, which was inflexible, dry, and dictato- 
rial. The emphasis was helped by the speak- 
er’s hair, which bristled on the skirts of his 
bald head, a plantation of firs to keep the wind 
from its shining surface, all covered with knobs, 
like the crust of a plum pie, as if the head 
had scarcely warehouse room for the hard facts 
stored inside. The speaker’s obstinate car- 
riage, square coat, square legs, square should- 
ers — nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take 
him by the throat with an unaccommodating 
grasp, like a stubborn fact, as it was, — all help- 
ed the emphasis. 

“In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; 
nothing but Facts I” 

The speaker and the schoolmaster, and the 
third grown person present, all backed a little, 
and swept with their eyes the inclined plane 
of little vessels then and there arranged in 
order, ready to have imperial gallons of facts 
poured into them until they were full to the 
brim. 


CHAPTER II. 

Thomas Gradgrind, sir. A man of reali- 
ties. A man of facts and calculations. A 
man who proceeds upon the principle that 
two and two are four, and nothing over, and 
who is not to be talked into allowing for any- 
thing over. Thomas Gradgrind, sir — peremp- 
torily Thomas — Thomas Gradgrind. With a 
rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplica- 
tion table always in his pocket, sir, ready to 


weigh and measure any parcel of human na- 
ture, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It 
is a mere question of figures, a case of simple 
arithmetic. You might hope to get some other 
nonsensical belief into the head of George Grad- 
grind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Grad- 
grind, or Joseph Gradgrind, (all suppositious, 
non-existent persons,) but into the head of 
Thomas Gradgrind — no, sir. • 

In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always men- 
tally introduced himself, whether to his private 
circle of acquaintance, or to the public in gene- 
ral. In such terms, no doubt, substituting 
the words “boys and girls,” for “sir,” Thomas 
Gradgrind now presented Thomas Gradgrind 
to the little pitchers before him, who were to 
be filled so full of facts. 

Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from 
the cellarage before mentioned, he seemed a 
kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts^ 
and prepared to blow them clean out of the 
regions of childhood at one discharge. He 
seemed a galvanising apparatus, too, charged 
with a grim mechanical substitute for the ten- 
der young imaginations that were to be storm- 
ed away. 

“Girl number twenty,” said Mr. Gradgrind, 
squarely pointing with his square forefinger, 
“I don’t know that girl. Who is that girl ?” 

“Sissy Jupe, sir,” explained number twenty, 
blushing, standing up, and curtseying. 

“Sissy is not a name,” said Mr. Gradgrind. 
“Don’t call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Ce- 
cilia.” 

“It’s father as calls me Sissy, sir,” returned 
the young girl in a trembling voice, and with 
another curtsey. 

“Then he has no business to do it,” said 
Mr. Gradgrind. “Tell him he mustn’t, Cecilia 
Jupe. Lee me see. What is your father ?” 

“He belongs to the horse-riding, if you 
please, sir.” 

Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the ob- 
jectionable calling with his hand. 

“We don’t want to know anything about that 
here. You mustn’t tell us about that, here. 
Y our father breaks horses, don’t he?” 

“If you please sir, when they can get any to 
break, they do break horses in the ring, sir.” 

“You mustn’t tell us about the ring here. 
Very well, then. Describe your father as a 
horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare 
say?” 

“Oh yes, sir.” 

“Very well, then. He is a veterinary sur- 
eon, a farrier and horsebreaker. Give me your 
efinition of a hoise.” 

( 83 ) 


84 


DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 


(Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm 
by this demand.) 

“Girl number twenty unable to define a 
horsel” said Mr. Gradgrind, for the general 
behoof of all the little pitchers. “Girl number 
twenty possessed of no facts in reference to one 
of the commonest of animalsl Some boy’s de- 
finition of a horse. Bitz;er, yours.” 

The square finger, moving here and there, 
lighted suddenly on Bitzer, perhaps because 
he chanced, to sit in the same ray of sunlight 
which, darting in at one of the bare windows 
of the intensely whitewashed room, irradiated 
Sissy. For, the boys and girls sat on the face 
of the inclined plane in two compact bodies, 
divided up the centre by a narrow interval; 
and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on the 
sunny side, came in for the beginning of a 
sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the 
corner of a row on the other side, a few 
rows in advance, caught the end. But, 
whereas the girl was so dark-eyed and dark- 
haired, that she seemed to receive a deeper 
and more lustrous color from the sun when it 
shone upon her, the boy was so light-eyed and 
light-haired that the selfsame rays appeared 
to draw out of him what little colour he ever 
possessed. His cold eyes would hardly have 
been eyes, but for the short ends of lashes 
which, by bringing them into immediate con- 
trast with something paler than themselves, 
expressed their form. His short-cropped 
hair might have been a mere continuation of 
the sandy freckles on his forehead and face. 

His skin was so unwholesomely deficient in 
the natural tinge, that he looked as though, if 
he were cut, he would bleed white. 

“Bitzer,” said Thomas Gradgrind. “Your 
definition of a horse.” 

“Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth, 
namely : twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, 
and twelve incisive. Sheds coat in the spring; 
in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too. Hoofs 
hard, but requiring to be shod with iron. Age 
known by marks in mouth.” Thus (and much 
more) Bitzer. 

“Now girl number twenty,” said Mr. Grad- 
grind. “You know what a horse is.” 

She curtseyed again, and would have blushed 
deeper, if she could have blushed deeper than 
she had blushed all this time. Bitzer, after 
rapidly blinking at Thomas Gradgrind with 
both eyes at once, and so catching the light 
upon his quivering ends of lashes that they 
looked like the antennm of busy insects, put 
Ms knuckles to his freckled forehead, and sat 
down again. 

The third gentleman now stepped forth. A 
man at cutting and drying, he was; a 
government officer; in his way (and in most 
other people’s too), a professed pugilist; always 
in training, always with a system to force 
down the general throat like a bolus, always 
to be heard of at the bar of his little Public- 
office, ready to fight all England. To con- 
tinue in fistic phraseology, he had a genius 
for coming up to the scratch, wherever and 


whatever it was, and proving himself an ugly 
customer. He would go in and damage any 
subject whatever with bis right, follow up 
with his left, stop, exchange, counter, bore 
his opponent (he always fought^ all Eng 
laud) to the ropes, and fall upon him neatly. 
He was certain to knock the wind out of com- 
mon-sense, and render that unlucky adversary 
deaf to the call of time. And he had it in 
charge from high authority to bring about the 
great public- office Millenium, when Commis- 
sioners should reign upon earth. 

“Very well,” said this gentleman, briskly 
smiling, and folding his arms. “That’s a 
horse. Now, let me ask you, girls and boys. 
Would you paper a room with representations 
of horses?” 

After a pause, one half of the children 
cried in chorus, “Yes, sirl” Upon which 
the other half, seeing in the gentleman’s face 
that Yes was wrong, cried out in chorus 
“No, sir I” — as the custom is in these exami- 
nations. 

“Of course. No. Why wouldn’t you?” 

A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with a 
wheezy manner of breathing, ventured the 
answer. Because he wouldn’t paper a room at 
all, but would paint it. 

“You must paper it,” said the gentleman, 
rather warmly. 

“You must paper it,” said Thomas Grad- 
grind, “whether you like it or not. Don’t tell 
us you wouldn’t paper it. What do you mean, 
boy?” 

“I’ll explain to you, then,” said the gentle- 
man, after another and a dismal pause, “why 
you wouldn’t paper a room with representa- 
tions of horses. Do you ever see horses walk- 
ing up and down the sides of rooms in reality — 
in fact? Do you?” 

“Yes, sir?” from one half. “No sirl” froni 
the other. 

“Of course no,” said the gentleman with 
an indignant look at the wrong half. “Why, 
then, you are not to see anywhere, what you 
don’t see in fact; you are not to have anywhere, 
what you don’t have in fact. What is called 
Taste, is only another name for Fact.” 

Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. 

“This is a new principle, a discovery, a 
great discovery,” said the gentleman. “Now, 
I’ll try you again. Suppose you were going 
to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet 
having a representation of flowers upon it?” 

There being a general conviction by this 
time that “No, sir,” was always the right 
answer to this gentleman, the chorus of No 
was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers 
said Yes; among them Sissy Jupe. 

“Girl number twenty,” said the gentleman, 
smiling in the calm strength of knowledge. 

Sissy blushed, and stood up. 

“So you would carpet your room — or your 
husband’s room, if you were a grown woman, 
and had a husband — with representations of 
flowers, would you?” said the gentleman. 
“Why would you?” 


HARD 

‘‘If you please, sir, I am very fond of flow- 
ers,” returned the girl. 

“And is that why you would put tables and 
chairs upon them, and have people walking 
' over them with heavy boots?” 

“It wouldn’t hurt them, sir. They wouldn’t 
crush and wither, if you please, sir. They 
would be the pictures of what was very pretty 

and pleasant, and I would fancy ” 

ay? ®’yl you musn’t fancy,” cried 

the gentleman, quite elated by coming so hap- 
pily to his point. “That’s itl You are never 
to fancy.” 

“You are not, Mary Jupe,” Thomas Grad- 
grind solemnly repeated, “to do anythin^ of 
that kind.” 

“Fact, fact, fact!” said the gentleman. And 
“Fact, fact, factl” repeated Thomas Grad- 
grind. 

“ You are to be in all things regulated and 
governed,” said the gentleman, “ by fact. 
We hope to have, before long, a board of fact, 
composed of commissioners of fact, who will 
force the people to be a people of fact, and 
of nothing but fact. You must discard the 
word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to 
do with it. You are not to have, in any object 
©f use or ornament, what would be a contra- 
diction in fact. You don’t walk upon flowers 
in fact ; you cannot be allowed to walk upon 
flowers in carpets. You don’t find that fo- 
reign birds and butterflies come and perch 
upon your crockery ; you cannot be permitted 
to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon 
your crockery. You never meet with quad- 
rupeds going up and down walls; you must 
not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. 
You must use,” said the gentleman, “for all 
these purposes, combinations and modifications 
(in primary colors) of mathematical figures 
which are susceptible of pro«f and demonstra- 
tion. This is the new discovery. This is fact. 
This is taste.” 

The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was 
very young, and she looked as if she were 
frightened by the matter of fact prospect the 
world afforded.” 

“Now, if Mr. M‘Choakumchild,” said the 
gentleman, “will proceed to give his first 
lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, 
at your request, to ob^serve his mode of pro- 
cedure.” 

Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. “Mr. 
M‘Choakumchild, v\’‘e only wait for you.” 

“So Mr. M‘Choakumchild began in his best 
manner. He and some one hundred and forty 
other schoolmasters, had been lately turned 
at the same time, in the same factory, on the 
same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. 
He had been put through an immense variety 
of paces, and had answered volumes of head 
breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, 
syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, 
geography, and general cosmography, the 
sciences of compound proportion, algebra, 
land surveying and levelling, vocal music, and 
drawing from models, were all at the ends 


TIMES. 85 

of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his 
stoney way into Her Majesty’s most Honor- 
able Privy Council’s Schedule B, and had 
taken the bloom off the higher branches of 
mathematics and physical science, French, 
German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all 
about all the Water Sheds of all the World 
(whatever they are,) and all the histories of 
all the peoples, and all the names of all the 
rivers and mountains, and all the productions, 
manners and customs of all the countries, and 
all their boundaries and bearings on the two 
and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather 
overdone, M’Choakumchild. If he had only 
learnt a little less, how infinitely better he 
might have taught much more 1 

He went to work in this preparatory lesson, 
not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves ; 
looking into all the vessels ranged before him, 
one after another, to see what they contained. 
Say, good M’Choakumchild. When from thy 
boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim 
full by and by, dost thou think that thou wilt 
always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking 
within — or sometimes only maim him and dis- 
tort himl 


CHAPTER III 

Mr. Gradgrind walked homeward from 
the school, in a state of considerable satis- 
faction. It was his school, and he intended it 
to be a model. He intended every child in it 
to be a model — just as the young Gradgrinds 
were all models. 

There were five young Gradgrinds, and they 
were models every one. They had been lec- 
tured at, from their tenderest years; coursed, 
like little hares. Almost as soon as they could 
run alone, they had been made to run to the 
lecture-room. The first object with which 
they had an association, or of which they had 
a remembrance, was a large black-board with 
a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures 
on it. 

Not that they knew, by name or nature, any- 
thing about an Ogre. Fact forbid 1 I only use 
the word to express a monster in a lecturing 
castle, with Heaven knows how many heads 
manipulated into one, taking childhood cap- 
tive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens 
by the hair. 

No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face 
in the moon; it was up in the moon before 
it could speak distinctly. No little Grad- 
grind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle 
twinkle, little star; how I wonder what you 
are; it had never known wonder on the 
subject, having at five years old dissected the 
Great Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven 
Charles’s Wain like a locomotive engine- 
driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associ- 
ated a cow in a field wiih that famous cow with 
the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who 
worried the cat who killed the rat who ate the 
malt, or with that yet more famous cow who 
swallowed Tom Thumb ; it had never heard of 


86 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


these celebrities, and had only been introduced 
to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating qua- 
druped with several stomachs. 

To his matter of fact home, which was 
called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed 
his steps. He had virtually retired from the 
wholesale hardware trade before he built 
Stone Lodge, and was now looking about for 
a suitable opportunity of making an arithmeti- 
cal figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was 
situated on a moor within a mile or two of a 
great town — called Coketown in the present 
faithful guide-book. 

A very regular feature on the face of the 
country. Stone Lodge was. Not the least dis- 
guise toned down or shaded off that un- 
compromising fact in the landscape. A great 
square house, with a heavy portico darkening 
the principal windows, as its master’s heavy 
brows overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, 
cast up, balanced and proved house. Six 
windows on this side of the door, six on that 
side; a total of twelve in this wing, a total of 
twelve in the other wing; four and twenty car- 
ried over to the back. A lawn and garden and 
an infant avenue, all ruled straight like a bota- 
nical account-book. Gas and ventilation, 
drainage and water-service, all of the primest 
quality. Iron clamps and girders, fireproof 
from top to bottom; mechanical lifts for the 
housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms; 
everything that heart could desire. 

Everything? Well I suppose so. The 
little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various de- 
partments of science too. They had a little 
conchological cabinet, and alittle metallurgical 
cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet; and 
the specimens were all arranged and labelled; 
and the bits of stone and ore looked as though 
they might have been broken from their parent 
substances by those tremendously hard instru- 
ments, their own names ; and, to paraphrase 
the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never 
found his way into their nursery, if the little 
greedy Gradgrinds grasped at more than this, 
what was it for good gracious goodness sake, 
that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at ! 

Their father walked on in a hopeful and 
satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate 
father, after his manner; but he would proba- 
bly have described himself (if he had been 
put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as “an 
eminently practical” father. He had a par- 
ticular pride in the phrase eminently practi- 
cal, which was considered to have a special 
application to him. Whatsoever the public 
meeting held in Coketown, and whatsoever 
the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner 
was sure to seize the occasion of alluding 
to his eminently practical friend Gradgrind. 
This always pleased the eminently practical 
friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due 
was acceptable. 

He had reached the neutral ground upon 
the outskirts of the town, which was neither 
town nor country, and yet was either spoiled, 
when his ears were invaded by the sound of 


music. The clashing and banging band a^ 
tached to the horse-riding establishment 
which had there set up its rest in a wooden 
pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating 
from the summit of the temple, proclaimed 
to mankind that it was “Sleary’s Horse- 
riding” which claimed their suffrages. Sleary 
himself, a stout modern statue with a 
money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesias- 
tical niche of early Gothic architecture, 
took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as 
some very long and very narrow strips ot 
printed bills announced, was then inaugura- 
ting the entertainments with her graceful eques- 
trian Tyrolean flower-act. Among the other 
pleasing but^ always strictly mor^ wonders 
which must be seen to be believed. Signor 
Jupe was that afternoon to “elucidate the di- 
verting accomplishments of his highly train- 
ed performing dog Merrylegs.” He was also 
to exhibit “ his astounding feat of throwing 
seventy-five hundred weight in rapid succes- 
sion backhanded over his head, thus forming a 
fountain of solid iron in mid air, a feat never 
before attempted in this or any other coun- 
try; and which, having elicited such rapturous 
plaudits from enthusiastic throngs, it cannot 
be withdrawn.” The same Signor Jupe was 
to “enliven the varied performances at fre- 
quent intervals with his chaste Shaksperean 
quips and retorts.” Lastly, he was to wind 
them up by appearing in his favorite character 
of Mr. William Button, of Tooley street, in 
“ the highly novel and laughable hippocome- 
dietta of The Tailor’s Journey to Brentford.” 

Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these 
trivialities of course, but passed on as a prac- 
tical man ought to pass on, either brushing the 
noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning 
them to the House of Correction. But, the 
turning of the road took him by the back of the 
booth, and at the back of the booth a number 
of children were congregated in a number oi 
stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the 
hidden glories of the place. 

This brought him to a stop. “Now, to 
think of these vagabonds,” said he, “attracting 
the young rabble from a model schooll” 

A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish 
being between him and the young rabble, he 
took his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to look 
for any child he knew by name, and might 
order off. Phenomenon almost incredible 
though distinctly seen, what did he then be- 
hold but his own metallurgical Louisa peep- 
ing with all her might through a hole in a 
deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas 
abasing himself on the ground to catch but a 
hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower 
act I 

Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind 
crossed to the spot where his family was thus 
disgraced, laid his hand upon each erring 
child, and said : 

“Louisa ! I Thomas 1 1” 

Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa 
looked at her father with more boldness than 


HARD 

Thomas did. Indeed, Thomas did not look at 
him, but gave himself up to be taken home like 
a machine. 

“In the name of wonder, idleness, and fol- 
ly !” said Mr. Gradgrind, leading each away 
by a hand 5 “what do you do here?” 

“Wanted to see what it was like,” returned 
Louisa shortly. 

“What it was like ?” 

“Yes, father.” 

There was an air of jaded sulletiness in 
them both, and particularly in the girl; yet, 
struggling through the dissatisfaction of her 
face, there was a light with nothing to rest 
upon, a fire with nothing to burn, a starved 
imagination keeping life in itself somehow, 
which brightened its expression. Not with 
the brightness natural to cheerful youth, but 
with uncertain, eager doubtful flashes, which 
had something painful in them, analogous to 
the changes of a blind face groping its way. 

She was a child now, of fifteen or sixteen 5 
but at no distant day would seem to become a 
woman all at once. Her father thought so as 
he looked at her. She was pretty. Would 
have been self-willed (he thought in his emi- 
nently practical way) but for her bringing-up. 

“Thomas, though I have the fact before me, 
I find it difficult to believe that you, witli your 
education and resources, should have brought 
your sister to a scene like this.” 

“I brought father,” said Louisa, quickly. 
“I asked him to come.” 

“I am sorry to hear it. I am very sorry, in- 
deed, to hear it. It makes Thomas no better, 
and it makes you worse, Louisa.” 

She looked at her faffier again, but no tear 
fell down her cheek. 

“Youl Thomas and you, to whom the circle 
of the sciences is open, Thomas and you who 
may be said to be replete with facts, Thomas 
and you who have been trained to mathemati- 
cal exactness, Thomas and you here!” cried 
Mr. Gradgrind. “In this degraded position! 
I am amazed.” 

“I was tired, father. I have been tired a 
long time,” said Louisa. 

“Tired? Of what?” asked the astonished 
father. 

“I don’t know of what— of everything I 
think.” 

“Say not another word,” returned Mr. Grad- 
grind. “You are childish. I will hear no 
more.” He did not speak again until they 
had walked some half-a-mile in silence, when 
he gravely broke out with t “What would 
your best friends say, Louisa ? Do you attach 
no value to their good opinion ? What would 
Mr. Bounderby say ?” 

At the mention of this name, his daughter 
stole a look at him, remarkable for its intense 
and searching character. He saw nothing of 
it, for. before he looked at her she had again 
cast down her eyes!” 

“What,” he repeated presently, “would Mr. 
Bounderby say?” All the way to Stone Lodge, 
as with grave indignation he led the two de- 


TIMES. 87 

linquents home, he repeated at intervals, 
“What would Mr. Bounderby say?” — as if Mr 
Bounderby had been Mrs. Grundy. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Not being Mrs. Grundy, who was Mr. Boun- 
derby? 

Why, Mr. Bounderby was as near being Mr. 
Gradgrind’s bosom fnend as a man perfectly ' 
devoid of sentiment can approach that spiritual 
relationship towards another man perfectly de- 
void of sentiment. So near was Mr. Bounder- 
by — or, if the reader should prefer it, so far off. 

He was a rich man: banker, merchant, 
manufacturer, and what not. A big, loud 
man, with a stare and a metallic laugh. A 
man made out of a coarse material, which 
seemed to have been stretched to make so 
much of him. A man with a great puffed 
head and forehead, swelled veins in his tem- 
ples, and such a strained skin to his face that 
it seemed to hold his eyes open and lift his 
eyebrows up. A man with a pervading ap- 
pearance on him of being inflated like a bal- 
loon, and ready to start. A man who could 
never sufficiently vaunt himself a selfmade 
man. A man who was always proclaiming, 
through that brassy speaking-trampet of a 
voice of his, his old ignorance and his old 
poverty. A man who was the Bully of hu- 
mility. 

A year or two younger than his eminently 
ractical fnend, Mr. Bounderby looked older ; 
is seven or eight and forty might have had 
the seven or eight added to it again, without 
surprising anybody. He had not much hair. 
One might have fancied he had talked it off ; 
and that what was left, all standing up in dis- 
order, was in that condition Jfrom being con- 
stantly blown about by his windy boastfalness. 

In the formal drawing room of Stone 
Lodge, standing on the hearth-rug, warming 
himself before the fire, Mr. Bounderby de- 
livered some observations to Mrs. Gradgrind 
on the circumstance of its being his birthday. 
He stood before the fire, partly because it was 
a cool spring afternoon, though the sun shone; 
partly because the shade of Stone Lodge was 
always haunted by the ghost of damp mor- 
tar; partly because he thus took up a com- 
manding position, from which to subdue Mrs, 
Gradgrind. 

“I hadn’t a shoe to my foot. As to a stock 
ing, I didn’t know such a thing by name. I 
passed the day in a ditch, and the night in a 
igsty. That’s the way I spent my tenth birth- 
ay. Not that a ditch was new to me, for I. 
was born in a ditch.” 

Mrs. Gradgrind, a little, thin, white, pink- 
eyed bundle of shawls, of surpassing feebleness, 
mental and bodily ; who was always taking, 
physic without any effect, and who, whenever 
she showed a symptom of coming to fife, 'was 
invariably stunned by some weighty piece of 
fact tumbling on her ; Mrs. Gradgrind hoped 
it w'as a dry ditch ? 


88 DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


! As wet as a sop. A foot of water in 
it;” said Mr. Bounderby. 

‘‘ Enough to give a baby cold,” Mrs. Grad- 
grind considered. 

“ Cold ? I was born with inflammation of 
the lungs, and of everything else, I believe, 
that was capable of inflammation,” returned 
Mr. Bounderby. “For years, ma’am, I was 
one of the most miserable little wretches ever 
seen. I was so sickly, that I was always 
moaning and groaning. I was so ragged and 
dirty, that you wouldn’t have touched me with 
a pair of tongs.” 

Mrs. Gradgrind faintly looked at the tongs, 
as the most appropriate thing her imbecility 
could think of doing. 

“ How I fought through it, I don’t know,” 
said Bounderby. “ I was determined, I sup- 
pose. I have been a determined character in 
later life, and I suppose I was then. Here I 
am, Mrs. Gradgrind, anyhow, and nobody to 
thank for my being here but myself.” 

Mrs. Gradgrind meekly and weakly hoped 
that his mother — 

“il/y mother? Bolted, ma’am!” said Boun- 
derby. 

Mrs. Gradgrind, stunned as usual, collapsed 
and gave it up. 

“My mother left me to my grandmother,” 
said Bounderby; “and, according to the best 
of my remembrance, my grandmother was 
the wickedest and the worst old woman that 
ever lived. If I got a little pair of shoes by 
any chance, she would take ’em off and sell 
’em for drink. Why, I have known that 
grandmother of mine lie in her bed and drink 
her fourteen glasses of liquor before break- 
fast!” 

Mrs. Gradgrind, weakly smiling, and giving 
no other sign of vitality, looked (as she always 
did) like an indifferently executed transparency 
of a small female figure, without enough light 
behind it. 

“She kept a chandler’s shop,” pursued 
Bounderby, “and kept me in an egg-box. 
That was the cot of my infancy; an old egg- 
box. As soon as I was big enough to run 
away, of course I ran away. Then I became 
a young vagabond; and instead of one old 
woman knocking me about and starving me, 
everybody of all ages knocked me about and 
starved me. They were right; they had no 
business to do anything else. I was a nui- 
sance, an incumbrance, and a pest. I know 
that, very well.” 

His pride in having at any time of his life 
achieved such a great social distinction as to 
be a nuisance, an incumbrance, and a pest, 
was only to be satisfied by three sonorous repe- 
titions of the boast. 

“I was to pull through it, I suppose, Mrs. 
Gradgrind. Whether 1 was to do it or not, 
ma’am, I did it. I pulled through it, though 
nobody threw me out a rope. Vagabond, 
errand-boy, vagabond, laborer, porter, clerk, 
chief manager, small partner, Josiah Bound- 
erby of Coketown. Those are the antecedents, 


and the culmination. Josiah Bounderby 
of Coketown learnt his letters from the outsides 
of the shops, Mrs. Gradgrind, and was first able 
to tell the time upon a dial-plate, from studying 
the steeple clock of St. Giles’ Church, London, 
under the direction of a drunken cripple, who 
was a convicted thief and an incorrigible va- 
grant. Tell Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, 
of your district schools, and your model schools, 
and your training schools, and your whole ket- 
tle-offish of schools; and Josiah Bounderby of 
Coketown tells you plainly, all right, all cor- 
rect — he hadn’t such advantages — but let us 
have hard-headed, solid fisted people — the edu- 
cation that made him won’t do for everybody, 
he knows well — such and such his education 
was, however, and you may force him to swal- 
low boiling fat, but you shall never force him 
to suppress the facts of his life.” 

Being heated when he arrived at this 
climax, J osiah Bounderby of Coketown stopped. 
He stopped just as his eminently practical 
friend, still accompanied by the two young 
culprits, entered the room. His eminently 
practical friend, on seeing him, stopped also, 
and gave Louisa a reproachful look that 
plainly said, “Behold your Bounderby!” 

“Well!” blustered Mr. Bounderby, “what’s 
the matter? What is young Thomas in the 
dumps about?” 

He spoke of young Thomas, but he looked 
at Louisa. 

“We were peeping at the circus,” muttered 
Louisa haughtily, without lifting up her eyes, 
“ and father caught us.” 

“And Mrs. Gradgrind,” said her husband 
in a lofty manner, “I should as soon have 
expected to find my children reading poetry.” 

“Dear me,” whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind. 
“How can you, Louisa and Thomas! I won- 
der at you. I declare you’re enough to make 
one regret ever having had a family at all. I 
have a great mind to say I wish I hadn’t. 
Then what would you have done, I should like 
to know.” 

Mr. Gradgrind did not seem favorably im- 
pressed by these cogent remarks. He frowned 
impatiently. • 

“As if, with my head in its present throb- 
bing St ate, you couldn’t go and look at the 
shells and minerals and things provided for 
you, instead of circuses!” said Mrs. Grad- 
grind. “You know, as well as I do, no young 
people have circus masters, or keep circuses 
in cabinets, or attend lectures about circuses. 
What can you possibly want to know of cir- 
cuses then? I am sure you have enough to 
do, if that’s what you want. With my head in 
its present state, I couldn’t remember the mere 
names of half the facts you have got to attend 
to.” 

“That’s the reason !” pouted Louisa. 

“Don’t tell me that’s the reason, because it 
can be nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Grad- 
grind. “Go and be somethingological direct- 
1} .” Mrs. Gradgrind was not a scientific cha- 
racter, and usually dismissed her children to 


HARD 

their studies with this general injunction to 
choose their pursuit. 

In truth, Mrs. Gradgrind’s stock of facts in 
general was woefully defective, but Mr. Grad- 
grind in raising her to her high matrimonial 
position had been influenced by two reasons. 
Firstly, she was most satisfactory as a ques- 
tion of figures; and, secondly, she had “no 
nonsense” about her. By nonsense he meant 
fancy; and truly it is probable she was as free 
from any alloy of that nature, as any human 
being not arrived at the perfection of an abso- 
lute idiot, ever was. 

The simple circumstance of being left alone 
with her husband and Mr. Bounderby, was 
sufficient to stun this admirable lady again, 
without collision between herself and any 
other fact. So, she once more died away, and 
nobody minded her. 

“Bounderby,” said Mr. Gradgrind, drawing 
a chair to the fireside, “you are always so 
interested in my young people — particularly 
in Louisa — that I make no apology for saying 
to you, I am very much vexed by this dis- 
covery. I have systematically devoted myself 
(as you know) to the education of the reason 
of my family. The reason is (as you know) 
the only faculty to which education should be 
addressed. And yet, Bounderby, it would ap- 
pear from this unexpected circumstance of 
to-day, though in itself a trifling one, as if 
something had crept into Thomas’s and 
Louisa’s minds which is — or rather, which is 
not — I don’t know that I can express myself 
better than by saying — which has never been 
intended to be developed, and in which their 
reason has no part.” 

“There certainly is no reason in looking 
with interest at a parcel of vagabonds,” re- 
turned Bounderby. “When I was a vagabond 
myself, nobody looked with any interest at me; 
I know that.” 

“Then comes the question,” said the emi- 
nently practical father, with his eyes on the 
fire, “in what has this vulgar curiosity its 
rise?” 

“I’ll tell you in what. In idle imagination.” 

“I hope not,” said the eminently practical; 
“I confess, however, that the misgiving has 
crossed me on my way home.” 

“In idle imagination, Gradgrind,” repeated 
Bounderby. “A very bad thing for anybody, 
but a cursed bad thing for a girl like Louisa. 
I should ask Mrs. Gradgrind’s pardon for strong 
expressions, but that she knows very well I am 
not a refined character. Whoever expects re- 
finement in me, will be disappointed. I hadn’t 
a refined bringing up.” 

“Whether,” said Mr. Gradgrind, pondering 
with his hands in his pockets, and his cavern- 
ous eyes on the fire, “whether any instructor 
or servant can have suggested anything ? 
Whether Louisa or Thomas can have been 
reading anything? Whether, in spite of all 
precautions, any idle story book can have got 
into the house ? Because, in minds that have 
been practically formed by rule and line, from 


TIMES. 89 

the cradle upwards, this is so curious, so in- 
comprehensible.” 

“Stop a bit!” cried Bounderby, who all this 
time had been standing, as before, on the 
hearth, bursting at the very furniture of the 
room with explosive humility. “You have one 
of those strollers’ children in the school.” 

“Cecilia Jupe, by name,” said Mr. Grad- 
grind, with something of a stricken look at his 
friend. 

“Now, stop a bit!” cried Bounderby again. 
“How did she come there?” 

“Why, the fact is, I saw the girl myself for 
the first time, only just now. She specially 
applied here at the house to be admitted, as 
not regularly belonging to our town, and 
— yes, you are right, Bounderby, you are 
right.” 

“Now stop a bit!” cried Bounderby, once more. 
“Louisa saw her when she came?” 

“Louisa certainly did see her, for she men- 
tioned the application tome. But Louisa saw 
her, I have no doubt, in Mrs. Gradgrind’s 
presence.” 

“Pray, Mrs. Gradgrind,” said Bounderby, 
“what passed?” 

“Oh, my poor health 1” returned Mrs. Grad- 
grind. “The girl wanted to come to the school, 
and Mr. Gradgrind wanted girls to pome to the 
school, and Louisa and Thomas both said that 
the girl wanted to come, and, that Mr. Grad- 
grind wanted girls to come, and how was it 
possible to contradict them when such was the 
fact!” 

“Now I tell you what, Gradgrind!” said Mr. 
Bounderby. “Turn this girl to the right-about, 
and there’s an end of it.” 

“I am much of your opinion.’^ 

“Do it at once,” said Bounderby, “has al- 
ways been my motto from a child. When I 
thought I would run away from my egg-box 
and my grandmother, I did it at once. Do 
you the same. Do this at once !” 

“Are you walking?” asked his friend. “I 
have the father’s address. Perhaps you would 
not mind walkin:^ to town with me?” 

“Not the least in the world,” said Mr. Bonn* 
derby, “as long as you do it at once !” 

So, Mr. Bounderby threw on his hat — he 
always threw it on, as expressing a man who 
had been far too busily employed in making 
himself, to acquire any fashion of wearing his 
hat — and with his hands in his pockets saun- 
tered out into the hall. “I never wear gloves,” 
it was his custom to say. “I didn’t climb up 
the ladder in them. Shouldn’t be so high up, 
if I had.” 

Being left to saunter in the hall a minute 
or two while Mr. Gradgrind went up stairs 
for the address, he opened the door of the 
children’s study and looked into that serene 
floor clothed apartment, which, notwithstand- 
ing its book-cases, and its cabinets, and its 
variety of learned and philosophical appli- 
ances, had much of the genial aspect of a 
room devoted to hair-cutting. Louisa lan- 
guidly leaned upon the window, looking out, 


DICKENS’ NEW STOKIES. 


90 

without looking at any thing, while young 
Thomas stood sniffling revengefully at the fire. 
Adam Smith and Malthus, two younger Grad- 
grinds, were out at a lecture in custody; and 
little Jane, after manufacturing a good deal of 
moist pipe-clay on ber face with slate pencil 
and tears, had fallen asleep over vulgar frac- 
tions. 

“It’s all right now, Louisa; it’s all right, 
young Thomas,” said Mr. Bounderby; “you 
won’t do so any more. I’ll answer for it’s be- 
ing all over with father. Well, Louisa, that’s 
worth a kiss, isn’t it?” 

“You can take one, Mr. Bounderby,” re- 
turned Louisa, when she had coldly paused, 
and slowly walked across the room, and un- 
graciously raised her cheek towards him, with 
her face turned away. 

“Always my pet; ain’t you, Louisa?” said 
Mr. Bounderby. “Good bye, Louisa!” 

He went his way, but she stood on the same 
spot, rubbing the cheek he had kissed, with 
her handkerchief, until it was burning red. 
She was still doing this, five minutes after- 
wards. 

“What are you about. Loo?” her brother 
sulkily remonstrated. “You’ll rub a hole in 
your face.” 

“You may cut the piece out with your pen- 
knife if you like, Tom. I wouldn’t cry!” 


CHAPTER V. 

Coketown, to which Messrs. Bounderby and 
Gradgrind now walked, was a triumph of 
fact; it had no greater taint of fancy in it 
than Mrs. Gradgrind herself. Let us strike 
the key-note, Coketown, before pursuing our 
tune. 

It was a town of red brick, or of brick that 
would have been red if the smoke and ashes 
had allowed it; but, as matters stood, it was a 
town of unnatural red and black like the 
painted face of a savage. It was a town of 
machinery and tall chimneys, out of which 
interminable serpents of smoke trailed them- 
selves for ever and ever, and never got 
uncoiled. It had a black canal in ir, and 
a river that ran purple with ill-smelling dye, 
and vast piles of building full of windows 
where there was a rattling and a trembling all 
day long, and where the piston of the steam- 
engine worked monotonously up and down, 
like the head of an elephant in a state of me- 
lancholy madness. It contained several large 
streets all very like one another, and many 
small streets still more like one another, in- 
habited by people equally like one another, 
who all went in and out at the same hours, 
with the same sound upon the same pavements, 
to do the same work, and to whom every day 
was the same as yesterday and to-morrow, 
and every year the counterpart of the last and 
the next. 

These attributes of Coketown were in the 
main inseparable from the work by which it 
was sustained; against them were to be set off, 


comforts of life which found their way all over 
the world, and elegances of life which made 
we will not ask how much of the fine lady, 
who could scarcely bear to hear the place men- 
tioned. The rest of its features Were volun- 
tary, and they were these. 

You saw nothing in Coketown but what 
was severely useful. If the members of a 
religious persuasion built a chapel there — > 
as the members of eighteen religious per- 
suasions had done — they made it a pious 
warehouse, of red brick, with sometimes (but 
this only in highly ornamented examples) a 
bell in a birdcage on the top of it. The 
solitary exception was the New Church ; a 
stuccoed edifice with a square steeple over 
the door, terminating in four stunted pin- 
nacles like florid wooden legs. All the 
public inscriptions in the town were painted 
alike, in severe characters of black and white. 
The jail might have been the infirmary, the 
infirmary might have been the jail, the town- 
hall might have been either, or both, or 
anything else, for anything that appeared 
to the contrary in the graces of their con- 
struction. Fact, fact, fact, everywhere in 
the material aspect of the town ; fact, 
fact, fact, everywhere in the immaterial. — 
The M‘Choakumchild school was all fact, and 
the school of design was all fact, and the 
relations between master and man were all 
fact, and everything was fact between the 
lying-in hospital and the cemetery, and what 
you couldn’t state in figures, or show to be 
purchasable in the cheapest market and 
saleable in the dearest, was not, and never 
should be, world without end. Amen. 

A town so sacred to fact, and so triumphant 
in its assertion, of course got on well? Why 
no, not quite well. No? Dear me! 

No. Coketown did not come out of its 
own furnaces, in all respects like gold that 
had stood the fire. First, the perplexing 
mystery of the place was. Who belonged to 
the eighteen denominations? Because, who- 
ever did, the laboring people did not. It was 
very strange to walk through the streets on 
a Sunday morning, and note how few of them 
the barbarous jangling of bells that was driv- 
ing the sick and nervous mad, called away 
from their own quarter, from their own close 
rooms, from the corners of their own streets, 
where they lounged listlessly, gazing at all the 
church and chapel going, as at a thing with 
which they had no manner of concern. Nor 
was it merely the stranger who noticed 
this, because there was a native organization 
in Coketown itself, whose members were to be 
heard of in the House of Commons every session 
indignantly petitioning for acts of parliament 
that should make these people religious by 
main force. Then, came the Teetotal Society, 
who complained that these same people would 
get drunk, and showed in tabular statements 
that they did get drunk, and proved at tea 
parties that no inducement, human or Divine 
(except a medal,) would induce them to forego 


HARD 

their custom of getting drunk. Then, came 
the chemist and druggist, with other tabular 
statements, showing that when they didn’t 
get drunk, they took opium. Then, came the 
experienced chaplain of the jail, with more 
tabular statements, confirming all the pre- 
vious tabular statements, and showing that 
the same people would resort to low haunts, 
hidden from the public eye, where they heard 
low singing and saw low dancing, and mayhap 
joined in it; and where A. B., aged twenty- 
four next birth-day, and committed for eighteen 
months’ solitary, had himself said (not that 
he had ever shown himself particularly 
worthy of belief) his ruin began, as he 
was perfectly sure and confident that other- 
wise he would have been a tip-top moral 
specimen. Then, came Mr. Gradgrind and 
Mr. Bounderby, the two gentlemen .at this 
present moment walking through Coketown, 
and both eminently practical, who could, 
on occasion, furnish more tabular state- 
ments derived from their own personal 
experience, and illustrated by cases they had 
known and seen, from which it clearly 
appeared — in short it was the only clear 
thing in the case — that these same people 
were a bad lot altogether, gentlemen; that 
do what you would for them they were never 
thankful for it, gentlemen; that they were 
restless, gentlemen ; that they never knew 
what they wanted; that they lived upon the 
best, and bought fresh butter, and insisted on 
Mocha coffee, and rejected all but prime parts 
of meat, and yet were eternally dissatisfied 
and unmanageable. In short, it wasthe moral 
of the old nursery fable : 

There was an old woman, and what do you think ? 
She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink ; 
Victuals and drink were the whole of her diet. 

And yet this old woman would never be quiet. 

Is it possible, I wonder, that there was 
any analogy between the case of the Coketown 
population and the case of the little Grad- 
grinds? Surely, none of us in our sober 
senses and acquainted with figures, are to be 
told at this time of day that one of the 
foremost elements in the existence of the Coke- 
town working people had been for scores of 
years delibrately set at naught? That there 
was any Fancy in them d^emanding to be 
brought into healthy existence instead of strug- 
gling on in convulsions? That exactly in the 
ratio as they worked long and monotonously, 
the craving grew within them for some physi- 
cal relief — some relaxation, encouraging good 
humor and good spirits, and giving them a vent 
— some holiday, though it were but for an 
honest dance to a stirring band of music 
— some occasional light pie in which even 
M’Choakumchild had no finger — which craving 
must and would be satisfied aright, or must and 
would inevitably go wrong, until the laws of the 
Creation were repealed? 

“This man lives at Pod’s End, and I don’t 
quite know Pod’s End,” said Mr. Gradgrind. 
“Which is it, Bounderby?” 


TIMES. 91 

Mr. Bounderby knew it was somewhere 
down town, but knew no more respecting it. 
So they stopped for a moment, looking about. 

Almost as they did so, there came running 
round the corner of the street, at a quick pace, 
and with a frightened look, a girl whom Mr. 
Gradgrind recognised. “Halloa!” said he. 
“Stop! Where are you going? Stop!” Girl 
number twenty stopped then, palpitating, and 
made him a curtsey. 

“Why are you tearing about the streets,” 
said Mr. Gradgrind, “ in this improper man- 
ner?” 

“I was — I was run after, sir,” the girl pant- 
ed, “and I wanted to get away.” 

“Run after?” repeated Mr. Gradgrind. — 
“Who would run after youV' 

The question was unexpectedly and sud- 
denly answered for her, by the colorless boy, 
Bitzer, who came round the corner with such 
blind speed and so little anticipating a stop- 
page on the pavement, that he brought himself 
up against Mr. Gradgrind’s waistcoat, and re- 
bounded into the road. 

“What do you mean, boy?” said Mr. Grad- 
grind. “What are you doing? How dare 
you dash against — everybody — in this man- 
ner?” 

Bitzer picked up his cap, which the con- 
cussion had knocked off, and backing, and 
knuckling his forehead, pleaded that it was an 
accident. 

“Was this boy running after you, Jupe?” 
asked Mr. Gradgrind. 

“Yes, sir,” said the girl reluctantly. 

“No, I wasn’t, sir!” cried Bitzer. “Not till 
she run away from me. But the horse-riders 
never mind what they say, sir ; they’re famous 
for it. You know the horse-riders ars famous 
for never minding what they say,” addressing 
Sissy. “It’s as well known in the town as — 
please, sir, as the multiplication table isn’t 
known to the horse-riders.” Bitzer tried Mr. 
Bounderby with this. 

“He frightened me so,” said the girl, “with 
his cruel faces !” 

“Oh!” cried Bitzer. “Oh ! An’t you one of 
the rest? An’t you a horse-rider? I never look- 
ed at her, sir. I asked her if she would know 
how to define a horse to-morrow, and offered 
to tell her again, and she ran away, and I ran 
after her, sir, that she might know how to 
answer when she was asked. You wouldn’t 
have thought of saying such mischief if you 
hadn’t been a horse-rider!” 

“Her calling seems to be pretty well known 
among ’em,” observed Mr. Bounderby. “You’d 
have had the whole school peeping in a row, 
in a week.” 

“Truly, I think so,” returned his friend. 
“Bitzer, turn you about and take yourself 
home. Jupe, stay here a moment. Let me 
hear of your running in this manner any more, 
boy, and you will hear of me through the mas- 
ter of the school. You understand what I 
mean. Go along.” 

The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, 


92 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy, 
turned about, and retreated. 

‘‘Now, girl,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “take this 
gentleman and me to your father’s; we are 
going there. What have you got in that bot- 
tle you are carrying?” 

“Gin ?” said Mr. Bounderby. 

“Dear, no sir! It’s the nine oils.” 

“The what?” cried Mr. Bounderby. 

“The nine oils, sir. To rub father with.” 

Then, said Mr. Bounderby, with a loud, short 
laugh, “what the devil do you rub your father 
with nine oils for?” 

“ It’s what our people always use, sir, when 
they get any hurts in the ring,” replied the 
girl, looking over her shoulder, to assure her- 
self that her pursuer was gone. “ They bruise 
themselves very bad sometimes.” 

“ Serve ’em right,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
“ for being idle.” She glanced up at his face 
with mingled astonishment and dread. 

“ By George 1” said Mr. Bounderby, “ when 
I was four or five years younger than you, I 
had worse bruises upon me than ten oils, 
t verity oils, forty oils, would have rubbed off. 
I didn’t get ’em by posture making, but by 
being banged about. There was no rope-dan- 
cing for me : I danced on the bare ground and 
was larruped with the rope.” 

Mr. Gradgrind, though hard enough, was 
by no means so rough a man as Mr. Boun- 
derby. His character was not unkind, all 
things considered ; it might have been a posi- 
tively kind one indeed if he had only made a good 
round mistake in the arithmetic that balanced 
it, years ago. He said, in what he meant 
for a re-assuring tone, as they tamed down a 
narrow road, “And this is Pod’s End; is it, 
Jupe ?” 

“This is it, sir, and — if you wouldn’t mind, 
sir — this is the house.” 

She stopped, at twilight, at the door of a 
mean little public house, with dim red 
lights in it. As haggard and as shabby, as if, 
for want of custom, it had itself taken to drink- 
ing, and had gone the way all drunkards go, 
and was very near the end of it. 

“It’s only crossing the bar, sir, and up the 
stairs, if you wouldn’t mind, and waiting there 
for a moment till I get a candle. If you should 
hear a dog, sir, it’s only Merrylegs, and he 
only barks.” 

“ Merrylegs and nine oils, eh!” said Mr. 
Bounderby, entering last with his metallic 
laugh. “Pretty well this, for a self-made man!” 


CHAPTER VI. 

The name of the public hou^e was the 
Pegasus’s Arms. ’J h^. Pegasus’s legs might 
have been more to the purpose; but, under- 
neath the wmge.l horse upon the sign-board, 
the Pegasus’s Am s was ii. scribed in Homan 
letters. Beneath that inscripiion again, in a 
flowing scroll, the painter had lunched off the 
lines: 


Good malt makes good beer, 

Walk in, and they’ll draw it hero, 

Good wine- makes good brandy, 

Give us a call, and you’ll find it handy. 

Framed and glazed upon the wall behind 
the dingy little bar, was another Pegasus — a 
theatrical one — with real gauze let in for his 
wings, golden stars stuck on all over him, and 
his ethereal harness made of red silk. 

As it had grown too dusky without, to see 
the sign, and as it had not grown light enough 
within to see the picture, Mr. Gradgrind and 
Mr. Bounderby received no ofience from these 
idealities. They followed the girl up some 
steep corner-stairs without meeting any one, 
and stopped in the dark while she went on 
for a candle. They expected every moment 
to hear Merrylegs give tongue, but the highly- 
trained performing dog had not barked when 
the girl and the candle appeared together. 

“Father is not in our room, sir,” she said,' 
with a face of great surprise. “If you wouldn’t 
mind walking in. I’ll find him directly.” 

They walked in; and Sissy, having set two 
chairs for them, sped away with a quick light 
step. It was a mean, shabbily furnished 
room, with a bed in it. The white nightcap, 
embellished with two peacock’s feathers and 
a pigtail bolt upright, in which Signor Jupe 
had that very afternoon enlivened the varied 
psrformances with his chaste Shaksperian 
quips and retorts, hung upon a nail; but no 
other portion of his wardrobe, or other token 
of himself or his pursuits, was to be seen any- 
where. As to Merrylegs, that respectable 
ancestor of the highly-trained animal, who 
went aboard the ark, might have been acci- 
dentally shut out of it, for any sign of a dog 
that was manifest to eye or ear in the Pegasus’s 
Arms. 

They heard the doors of rooms above, 
opening and shutting as Sissy went from one 
to another in quest of her father; and presently 
they heard voices expressing surprise. She 
came bounding down again in a great hurry, 
opened a battered and mangey old hair-trunk, 
found it empty, and looked round with her 
hands clasped and her face full of terror. 

“Father must have gone down to the Booth, 
sir. I don’t know why he should go there, 
but he must be there ; I’ll bring him in a 
minute !” She was gone directly, without her 
bonnet; with h^r long, dark, childish hair 
streaming behind her. 

“What does she mean!” said Mr. Grad- 
grind. “Back in a minute ? It’s more than a 
mileofif.” 

Before Mr. Bounderby could reply, a young 
man appeared at the door, and introducing 
himself with the words, “By your leaves, gen- 
tlemen!” walked in with his hands in his 
pockets. His face, close-shaven, thin, and 
sallow, was shaded by a great quantity of dark 
hair brushed into a roll all round his head, 
and parted up the centre. His legs were very 
robust, but shorter than legs of good propor- 
tions should have been. His chest and back 


HARD TIMES. 


93 


were as mucli too broad, as his legs were too 
short. He was dressed in a Newmarket coat 
and tight-fitting trousers; wore a shawl round 
his neck; smelt of lamp-oil, straw, orange-peel, 
horses’ provender, and sawdust; and looked a 
most remarkable sort of Centaur, compounded 
of the stable and the play-house. Where the 
one began, and the other ended, nobody could 
have told with any precision. This gentleman 
was mentioned in the bills of the day as Mr. E. 
W. B. Childers, so justly celebrated for his 
daring vaulting act as the Wild Huntsman of 
the North American Prairies; in which popular 
performance, a diminutive boy with an old 
face, who now accompanied him, assisted as 
his infant son: being carried upside down 
over his father’s shoulder, by one foot, and 
held by the crown of his head, heels upwards, 
in the palm of his father’s hand, according 
to the violent paternal manner in which 
wild huntsmen may be observed to fon- 
dle their offspring. Made up with curls, 
wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, 
this hopeful young person soared into so 
pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief 
delight of the maternal part of the spectators; 
but, in private, where his characteristics were 
a precocious cutaway coat and an extremely 
gruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy. 

* ^‘By your leaves, gentlemen,” said Mr. E. 
W. B. Childers, glancing round the room. “It 
was you, I believe, that were wishing to see 
Jupe?” 

“It was,” said Mr. Gradgrind. “His daughter 
has gone to fetch him, but I can’t wait ; there- 
fore, if you please, I will leave a message for 
him with you.” 

“You see, my friend,” Mr. Bounderby put 
in, “we are the kind of people who know the 
value of time, and you are the kind of people 
who don’t know the value of time.” 

“I have not,” retorted Mr. Childers, after 
surveying him from head to foot, “the honor 
of knowing you ; — but if you mean that you 
can make more money of your time than I can 
of mine, I should judge from your appearance, 
that you are about right.” 

“And when you have made it, you can keep 
it too, I should think,” said Cupid. 

“Kidderminster, stow that 1” said Mr. 
Childers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid’s 
mortal name.) 

“What does he come here cheeking us for, 
then ?” cried Master Kidderminster, showing 
a very irascible temperament. “If you want 
to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and 
take it out.” 

“Kidderminster,” said Mr. Childers, raising 
his voice, “stow that ! — Sir,” to Mr. Gradgrind, 
“I was addressing myself to you. You may 
or you may not be aware (for perhaps you 
have not been much in the audience), that 
Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately.” 

“Has — what has he missed?” asked Mr. 
Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby 
for assistance. 

“ Missed his tip." 


“ Offered at the Garters four times last 
night, and never done ’em once,” said Master 
Kidderminster. “Missed his tip at the banners, 
too, and was loose in his ponging.” 

“Didn’t do what he ought to do. Was 
short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling,” 
Mr. Childers interpreted. 

“ Oh !” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ that is tip, is 
it?” 

“ In a general way that’s missing his tip,” 
Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. 

“ Nine-oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, 
banners, and Ponging, eh 1 ” ejaculated 
Bounderby with his laugh of laughs. “Queer 
sort of company too, for a man who has raised 
himself.” 

“Lower yourself, then,” retorted Cupid. 
“ Oh Lord 1 If you’ve raised youi self so high 
as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit.” 

“ This is a very obtrusive lad 1” said Mr. 
Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on 
him. 

“ We’d have had a young gentleman to 
meet you, if we had known you were coming,” 
retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing 
abashed. “It’s a pity you don’t have a be- 
speak, being so particular. You’re on the 
Tight- J eff, ain’t you ?” 

“ What does this unmannerly boy mean,” 
asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of 
desperation, “by Tight-Jeff?” 

“ There 1 Get out, get outl” said Mr. 
Childers, thrusting his young friend from the 
room, rather in the prairie manner. “ Tight- 
Jeff or Slack- Jeff, it don’t much signify ; it’s 
only tightrope and slack-rope. You were 
going to give me a message for Jupe ?” 

“ Yes, I was.” 

“Then,” continued Mr. Childers, quickly, 
“my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do 
you know much of him ?” 

“I never saw the man in my life.” 

“ I doubt if you ever will see him now. It’s 
pretty plain to me, he is off.” 

“Do you mean that he has deserted his 
daughter ?” 

“ Ay ! I mean,” said Mr. Childers, with a 
nod, “that he has cut. He was goosed last 
night, he was goosed the night before last, ho 
was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the 
way of being always goosed, and he can’t 
stand it.” 

“Why has he been — so very much — Goosed?” 
asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of 
himself, with great solemnity and reluctance. 

“His joints are turning stiff, and he is 
^ getting used up,” said Childers. “That’s about 
the size of it. He has his points as a Cackler 
still, but he can’t get a living out of them." 

“A Cackler ?” Bounderby repeated. “Here 
we go again 1” 

“A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better,” 
said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously 
throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, 
and accompanying it with a shake of his long 
hair — ^which all shook at once. “Now, it’s a 
remarkable fact, sir, that it cut that man deep- 


94 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


er, to know that his daughter knew of his 
being goosed, than to go through with it.” 

“Goodl” interrupted Mr. Bounderby. “This 
is good, Gradgrind 1 A man so fond of his 
daughter, that he runs away from her ! This 
is devilish good I Ha! ha! Now, I’ll tell you 
what, young man. I haven’t always occupied 
'my present station of life. I know what these 
things are. You may be astonished to hear 
it, but my mother ran away from wie.” 

E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he 
was not at all astonished to hear it. 

“Very well,” said Bounderby. “I was 
born in a ditch, and my mother ran away 
from me. Do I excuse her for it ? No. Have 
I ever excused her for it ? Not I. What do 
I call her for it ? I call her probably the very 
worst woman that ever lived in the world, 
except my drunken grandmother. There’s 
no family pride about me, there’s no imagina- 
tive sentimental humbug about me. I call a 
spade a spade: and I call the mother of J osiah 
Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or 
any favor, what I should call her if she had 
been the mother of Dick Jones of Wapping. 
So, with this man. He is a runaway rogue 
and a vagabond, that’s what he is, in English.” 

“It’s all the same to me what he is or 
what he is not, whether in English or 
whether in French,” retorted Mr. E. W. 
B. Childers, facing about. “ I am telling 
your friend what’s the fact; if you don’t 
like to hear it, you can avail yourself of 
the open air. You give it mouth enough, 
you do ; but give it mouth in your own 
building at least,” remonstrated E. W. B. 
with stern irony. “Don’t give it mouth 
in this building, till you’re called upon. 
You have got some building of your own, 
I dare say, now?” 

“ Perhaps so,” replied Mr. Bounderby, 
rattling his money and laughing. 

“ Then give it mouth in your own building, 
will you; if you please ?” said Childers. 
“ Because this isn’t a strong building, and 
too much of you might bring it down !” 

Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot 
again, he turned from him, as from a man 
finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind. 

“ Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand 
not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip 
out himself, with his hat over his eyes and a 
bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. 
She will never believe it of him; but he has cut 
away and left her.” 

“Pray,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “why will she 
never believe it of him?” 

“Because those two were one. Because they 
were never asunder. Because, up to this time, 
he seemed to dote upon her,” said Childers, 
taking a step or two to look into the empty 
trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidder- 
minster walked in a curious manner; with their 
legs wider apart than the general run of men, 
and with a very knowing assumption of being 
stiff in the knees. This walk was common to 
«11 the male members of Sleary’s company, and 


was understood to express, that they were al* 
ways on horseback. 

“Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed 
her,” said Childers, giving his hair another 
shake, as he looked up from the empty box. 
“Now, he leaves her without anything to take 
to.” 

“It is creditable to you who have never been 
apprenticed, to express that opinion,” returned 
Mr. Gradgrind, approvingly. 

“/ never apprenticed ? I was apprenticed 
when I was seven year old. Did the canvass, 
more or less, every day of my life, till I was 
out of my time,” said Childers. Seeing Mr. 
Gradgrind at a loss, he explained very clearly 
by circular motion of his hand, and by the 
rapid interjections, “Hi! hi! hi!” uttered as 
stimulants to a suppositious horse, that doing- 
the canvass was synonymous with riding round 
the ring. 

“Oh! You mean that?” said Mr. Gradgrind, 
rather resentfully, as having been defrauded 
of his good opinion. “I was not aware of its 
being the custom to apprentice young persons 
to ” 

“Idleness,” Mr. Bounderby put in with a 
loud laugh. “No, by the Lord Harry ! Nor I!” 

“ Her father always had it in his head, ” 
resumed Childers, feigning unconsciousness 
of Mr. Bounderby’s existence, “that she was 
to be taught the deuce-and-all of education. 
How it got into his head, I can’t say ; I can 
only say that it never got out. He has been 
picking up a bit of reading for her, here — and 
a bit of writing for her, there — and a bit of 
cyphering for her, somewhere else — these 
seven years. If she had been apprenticed, she 
would have been doing the garlands in an in- 
dependent way by this time.” 

Mr. E. W. Childers took one of his hands 
out of his pockets, stroked his face and chin, 
and looked, with a good deal of doubt and a 
little hope, at Mr. Gradgrind. From the first 
he had sought to conciliate that gentleman, 
for the sake of the deserted girl. 

“When Sissy got into the school here,” he 
pursued, “her father was as pleased as Punch. 
I couldn’t altogether make out why, myself, 
as we were not stationary here, being but 
comers and goers anywhere. I suppose, how- 
ever, he had this move in his mind— he was 
always half cracked — and then considered her 
provided for. If you should happen to have 
looked in to-night, for the purpose of telling 
him that you were going to do her any little 
service,” said Mr. Childers, stroking his face 
again and repeating his look, “it would be 
very fortunate and well timed; very fortunate 
and well-timed.” 

“On the contrary,” returned Mr. Gradgrind, 
“I came to tell him that her connexions made 
her not an object for the school, and that she 
must not attend any more. Still, if her father 
really has left her, without any connivance on 
her part — Bounderby, let me have a word with 
you.” 

Upon this, Mr, Childers politely betook him- 


HARD 

self, with his equestrian walk, to the landing 
outside the door, and there stood stroking his 
face and softly whistling. While thus enga- 
ged, he overheard such phrases in Mr. Bound- 
erby’s voice, as “No. I say no. I advise you 
not. I say by no means.” While, from Mr. 
Gradgrind, he heard in his much lower tone 
the words, “But even as an example to Louisa, 
of what this pursuit which has been the sub- 
ject of a vulgar curiosity, leads to and ends in. 
Think of it, Bounderby, in that point of view.” 

Meanwhile, the various members of Sleary’s 
company gradually gathered together from 
the upper regions, where they were quartered, 
and, from standing about, talking in low 
voices to one another and to Mr. Childers, 
gradually insinuated themselves and him into 
the room. There were two or three handsome 
young women among them, with their two or 
three husbands, and their two or three 
mothers, and their eight or nine little chil- 
dren, who did the fairy business when requir- 
ed. The father of one of the families was in 
the habit of balancing the father of another of 
the families on the top of a great pole; the fa- 
ther of a third family often made a pyramid 
of both those fathers, with Master Kidder- 
minster for the apex, and himself for the 
base; all the fathers could dance upon roll- 
ing casks, stand upon bottles, catch knives and 
balls, twirl hand-basins, ride upon anything, 
jump over everything, and stick at nothing. 
All the mothers could (and did), dance, upon 
the slack wire and the tight rope, and perform 
rapid acts on bare-backed steeds; none of them 
were at all particular in respect of showing 
their legs ; and one of them, alone in a Greek 
chariot, drove six in hand into every town 
they came to. They all assumed to be mighty 
rakish and knowing, they were not very tidy 
in their private dresses, they were not at all 
orderly in their domestic arrangements, and 
the combined literature of the whole company 
would have produced but a poor letter on any 
subject. Yet there was a remarkable gentle- 
ness and childishness about these people, a 
special inaptitude for any kind of sharp 
practice, and' an untiring readiness to help 
and pity one another, deserving, often of as 
much respect, and always of as much generous 
construction, as the every-day virtues of any 
class of people in the world. 

Last of all appeared Mr. Sleary; a stout 
man as already mentioned, with one fixed eye 
and one loose eye, a voice (if it can be called 
so) like the efforts of a broken old pair of 
bellows, a flabby surface, and a muddled head 
which was never sober and never drunk. 

“Thquire!” said Mr. Sleary, who was trou- 
bled with asthma, and whose breath came far 
too thick and heavy for the letter s, “Your 
thervantl Thith ith a bad piethe of bithnith, 
thith ith. You’ve heard of my Clown and 
hith dog being thuppothed to have morrithed?” 

He addressed Mr. Gradgrind, who answered 
“Yes.” 

“Well Thquire,” he returned, taking off his 


TIMES. 95 

hat, and rubbing the lining with his pocket- 
handkerchief, which he kept inside it for the 
purpose. “Ith it your intentionth to do any- 
thing for the poor girl, Thquire?” 

“I shall have something to propose to her 
when she comes back,” said Mr. Gradgrind. 

“Glad to hear it, Thquire. Not that I want 
to get rid of the child, any more than I want to 
thtand in her way. I’m willing to take her 
prentith, though at her age ith late. My 
voithe ith a little huthky, Thquire, and not eathy 
heard by them ath don’t know me; but if 
you’d been chilled and heated, heated and 
chilled, chilled and heated, in the ring when 
you wath young, ath often ath I have been, 
your voithe would’nt have lathted out, Thquire, 
no more than mine.” 

“I dare say not,” said Mr. Gradgrind. 

“What thall it be, Thquire, while you wait? 
Thall it be Therry? Give it a name, Thquirel” 
said Mr. Sleary, with hospitable ease. 

“Nothing for me, I thank you,” said Mr. 
Gradgrind. 

“Don’t thay nothing, Thquire. What doth 
your friend thay? If you haven’t took your 
feed yet, have a glath of bitterth.” 

Here his daughter Josephine — a pretty 
fair-haired girl of eighteen, who had been 
tied on a horse at two years old, and had 
made a will at twelve, which she always, 
carried about with her, expressive of her 
dying desire to be drawn to the grave by the 
two piebald ponies — cried “ Father, hush I 
she has come back 1” Then came Sissy Jupe, 
running into the room as she had run out of 
it. And when she saw them all assembled, 
and saw their looks, and saw no father there, 
she broke into a most deplorable cry, and took 
refuge on the bosom of the most accomplished 
tight-rope lady (herself in the family way,) 
who knelt down on the floor to nurse her, and 
to weep over her. 

“Ith an infernal thame, upon my thoul it 
ith,” said Sleary. 

“ 0 my dear father, my good kind father, 
where are you gone? You are gone to try 
to do me some good, I know 1 You are gone 
away for my sake, I am sure. And how 
miserable and helpless you will be without 
me, poor, poor father, until you come back !” 
It was so pathetic to hear her saying many 
things of this kind, with her face turned 
upward, and her arms stretched out as if she 
were trying to stop his departing shadow and 
embrace it, that no one spoke a word until 
Mr. Bounderby (growing impatient) took the 
case in hand. 

“Now, good people all,” said he, “this is 
wanton waste of time. Let the girl understand 
the fact. Let her take it from me, if you like, 
who have been run away from, myself. Here, 
what ’s your name I Your father has abscond- 
ed — deserted you — and you must n’t expect to 
see him again as long as you live.” 

They cared so little for plain Fact, these 
people, and were in that advanced state of 
degeneracy on the subject, that instead of be- 


96 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


ing impressed by tbe speaker’s strong common 
sense, they took it in extraordinary dudgeon. 
The men muttered “Shame !” and the women 
“ Brute 1 ” and Sleary, in some haste, commu- 
nicated the following hint, apart to Mr. Boun- 
derby. 

“I tell you what, Thquire. To thpeak plain 
to you, my opinion ith that you had better 
cut it thort, and drop it. They’re a very good 
natur’d people, my people, but they’re accuth- 
tomed to be quick in their movementh ; and 
if you don’t act upon my advithe, I’m damned 
if I don’t believe they’ll pith you out o’ the 
winder.” 

Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mild 
suggestion, Mr. Gradgrind found an opening 
for his eminently practical exposition of the 
subject. 

“It is of no moment,” said he, “whether this 

S erson is to be expected back at any time, or 
le contrary. He is gone away, and there is no 
present expectation of his return. That, I be- 
lieve, is agreed on all hands.” 

“Thath agreed, Thquire. Thtick to that I” 
From Sleary. 

“Well then. I, who came here to inform 
the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she 
could not be received at the school any more, 
in consequence of there being practical objec- 
tions, into which I need not enter, to the re- 
ception there of the children of persons so em- 
ployed, am prepared in these altered circum- 
stances to make a proposal. I am willing to 
take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, 
and provide for you. The only condition 
(over and above your good behavior) I make 
is, that you decide now, at once, whether to 
accompany me or remain here. Also, that if 
you accompany me now, it is understood that 
you communicate no more with any of your 
friends, who are here present. These obser- 
vations comprise the whole of the case.” 

“At the thame time,” said Sleary, “I mutht 
put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides 
of the banner may be equally theen. If you 
like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the 
natur of the work, and you know your com- 
panionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap 
you’re a lyin’ at prethent, would be a mother 
to you, and Joth’phine would be a thithter to 
you. I don’t pretend to be of the angel breed 
mythelf, and I don’t thay but what, when you 
mith’d your tip, you’d find me cut up rough, 
and thwear an oath or two at you. But what 
I thay, Thquire, ith, that good tempered or 
bad tempered, I never did a horthe a injury 
yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and 
that I don’t expect I thall begin otherwithe at 
my time of life, with a rider. I never wath 
muth of a Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed 
my thay.” 

The latter part of this speech was addressed 
to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave 
inclination of his head, and then remarked: 

“The only observation I will make to you, 
Jupe, in the way of influencing your decision, 
is, that it is highly desirable to have a sound, 


practical education, and that even your father 
himself (frona what I understand) appears, on 
your behalf, to have known and felt that 
much.” 

The last words had a visible effect upon her. 
She stopped in her wild crying, a little de- 
tached herself from Emma Gordon, and turned 
her face full upon her patron. The whole 
company perceived the force of the change, 
and drew a long breath together, that plainly 
said, “she will go I” 

“Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe,” 
Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her ; “I say no more. 
Be sure you know your own mind !” 

“When father comes back,” cried the girl, 
bursting into tears again after a minute’s 
silence, “how will he ever find me if I go 
away I” 

“You may be quite at ease,” said Mr. Grad- 
grind, calmly ; he worked out the whole mat- 
ter like a sum ; “you may be quite at ease, 
Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your 
father, I apprehend, must find out Mr. ” 

“Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not 
athamed of it. Known all over England, and 
alwayth paythe ith way.” 

“Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then 
let him know where you went. I should have 
no power of keeping you against his wish, and 
he would have no difficulty, at any time, in 
finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. 
I am well known.” 

“Well known,” assented Mr. Sleary, rolling 
his loose eye. “You’re one of the thort, 
Thquire, that keepth a prethious thight of 
money out of the houthe. But never mind 
that at prethent.” 

There was another silence; and then she 
exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her 
face, “Oh give me my clothes, give me my 
clothes, and let me go away before I break 
my heart!” 

The women sadly bestirred themselves to 
get the clothes together— it was soon done, 
for they were not many — and to pack them 
in a basket which had often travelled with 
them. Sissy sat all the time, upon the ground, 
still sobbing and covering her eyes. Mr. 
Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stood 
near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. 
Sleary stood in the middle of the room, with 
the male members of the company about him, 
exactly as he would have stood in the centre 
of the ring during his daughter Josephine’s pei> 
formance. He wanted nothing but his whip. 

The basket packed in silence, they brought 
her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered 
hair, and put it on. Then they pressed about 
her, and bent over her in very natural atti- 
tudes, kissing and embracing her; and brought 
the children to take leave of her; and were a 
tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women 
altogether. 

“Now, Jupe,” said Mrs. Gradgrind, “if you 
are quite determined, come 1” 

But she had to take her farewell of the male 
part of the company yet, and every one of them 


HARD TIMES. 


had to unfold his arms (for they all assumed 
the professional attitude when they found them- 
selves near Sleary), and give her a parting 
kiss — Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose 
young nature there was an original flavor of 
the misanthrope, who was also known to have 
harbored matrimonial views, and 'who moodily 
withdrew. Mr. Slearj was reserved until the 
last. Opening his arms wide, he took her by 
both hands, and would have sprung her up 
and down, after the riding-master manner of 
congratulating young ladies on their dismount- 
ing from a rapid act; but there was no rebound 
in Sissy, and she only stood before him cry- 
ing. 

“ Good bye, my dear!” said Sleary. “You’ll 
make your fortune, I hope, and none of our 
or folkth will ever trouble you. I’ll pound it. 
with your father hadn’t taken hith dog 
with him ; ith a ill-con wenienth to have the 
dog out of the billth. But on thecond 
thoughth, he wouldn’t have performed without 
hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!” 

With that, he regarded her attentively with 
his fixed eye, surveyed the company with the 
loose one, kissed her, shook his head, and 
handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. 

“There the ith, Thquire,” ne said, sweeping 
her with a professional glance as if she were 
being adjusted in her seat, “and the’ll do you 
juthtithe. Good bye, Thethilia!” 

“Good bye Cecilia!” “Good bye Sissy!” 
“God bless you, dear!” In a variety of voices 
from all the room. 

But the riding-master’s eye had observed the 
bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and 
he now interposed with “Leave the bottle, my 
dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe 
to you now. Giv6 it to me!” 

“No, no!” she said, in another burst of 
tears. “Oh no! Pray let me keep it for 
father till he comes back! He will want it, 
when he comes back. He had never thought 
of going away, when he sent me for it. I 
must keep it for him, if you please!” 

“Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it 
ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht 
wordth to you ith thith, Thtick to the termth 
of your engagement, be obedient to the 
Thquire, and forget uth. But if, when you’re 
grown up and married and well off, you 
come upon any horthe-riding ever, don’t be 
hard upon it, don’t be croth with it, give it 
a Bethpeak if you can, and think you might 
do wurth. People mutht be amused, Thquire, 
thomehow, continued Sleary, rendered more 
pursy than ever, by so much talking ; “ they 
can’t be alwayth a working, nor yet they can’t 
be alwayth a learning. Make the betht of uth : 
not the wurtht. I’ve got my living out of the 
horthe-riding all my life, I know ; but I con- 
thider that I lay down the philothophy of the 
thubject when Ithay to you, Thquire, make the 
betht of uth; not the wurtht !” 

The Sleary philosophy was propounded as 
they went down stairs ; and the fixed eye of 
Philosophy — and its rolling eye, too — soon 


97 

lost the three figures and tho basket in tha 
darkness of the street. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Mr. Bounderby being a bachelor, an elderly 
lady presided over his establishment, in con- 
sideration of a certain annual stipend. Mrs. 
Sparsit was this lady’s name; and she was a 
prominent figure in attendance on Mr. Boun- 
derby’s car, as it rolled along in triumph with 
the Bully of humility inside. 

F or, Mrs. Sparsit had not only seen different 
days, but was highly connected. She had a 
great aunt living in these very times called 
Lady Scadgers. Mr. Sparsit, deceased, of whom 
she was the relict, had been by the mother’s 
side what Mrs. Sparsit still called “a Powler.” 
Strangers of limited information and dull ap- 
prehension were sometimes observed not to 
know what a Powler was, and even to appear 
uncertain whether it might be a business, or 
a political party, or a profession of faith. The 
better class of minds, however, did not need 
to be informed that the Powlers were an 
ancient stock, who could trace themselves so 
exceedingly far back that it was not surpris- 
ing if they sometimes lost themselves — which 
they had rather frequently done, as respected 
horse-flesh, blind-hookey, Hebrew monetary 
transactions, and the Insolvent Debtors Court. 

The late Mr. Sparsit, being by the mother’s 
side a Powler, married this lady, being by the 
father’s side a Scadgers. Lady Scadgers (an 
immensely fat old woman, with an inordinate 
appetite for butcher’s meat, and a mysterious 
leg, which had now refused to get out of bed for 
fourteen years) contrived the marriage, at a 
period when Sparsit was just of age, and 
chiefly noticeable for a slender body, weakly 
supported on two long slim props, and sur- 
mounted by no head worth mentioning. He 
inherited a fair fortune from his uncle, but 
owed it all before he came into it, and spent 
it twice over immediately afterwards. Thus, 
when he died, at twenty-four (the scene of 
his decease Calais, and the cause brandy), he 
did not leave his widow, from whom he had 
been separated soon after the honeymoon, ip. 
affluent circumstances. That bereaved lady, 
fifteen years older than he, fell presently a 
deadly feud with her only relative. Lad. 
Scadgers ; and, partly to spite her ladyship 
and, partly to maintain herself, went out at a 
salary. And here she was now in her elderly 
days, with the Coriolanian style of nose and 
the dense black eyebrows which had captivated 
Sparsit, making Mr. Boundeiby’s tea as he 
took his breakfast. 

If Bounderby had been a Conqueror,, and 
Mrs. Sparsit a captive Princess whom he 
took about as a feature in his state-proces- 
sions, he could not have made a greater flour- 
ish with her than he habitually did. Just as 
it belonged to his boastfulness to depreciate 
his own extraction, so it belonged to it to exalt 
Mrs. Sparsit’s. In the measure that he would 


DICKENS’ NEW STOKIES. 


98 

not allow his own youth to have been attend- 
ed by a single favorable circumstance, he 
brightened Mrs. Sparsit’s juvenile career with 
every possible advantage, and showered wagon 
loads of early roses all over that lady’s path. 
“And yet, sir,” he would say, ‘‘how does it turn 
out after all? Why here she is at a hundred a 
year (I give her a hundred, which she is pleas- 
ed to term handsome), keeping the house of 
Josiah Bounderby of Coketown!” 

Nay, he made this foil of his so very widely 
known, that third parties took it up, and 
handled it on some occasions with considerable 
briskness. It was one of the most exaspera- 
ting attributes of Bounderby, that he not only 
sang his own praises, but stimulated other 
men to sing them. There was a moral infec- 
tion of claptrap in him. Strangers, modest 
enough elsewhere, started up at dinners in 
Coketown, and boasted, in quite a rampant 
way, of Bounderby. They made him out to 
be the Royal arms, the Union Jack, Magna 
Charta, John Bull, Habeas Corpus, the Bill of 
Rights, An Englishman’s house is his castle. 
Church and State, and God save the Queen, 
all put together. And as often (and it was 
very often) as an orator of this kind brought 
into his peroration, 

“ Princes and Lords may flourish or may fade, - 

A breath can make them, as a breath has made:” 

— it was, for certain, more or less understood 
among the company that he had heard of 
Mrs. Sparsit. 

“Mr. Bounderby,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “you 
are unusually slow, sir, with your breakfast 
this morning.” 

“Why, ma’am,” he returned, “I am thinking 
about Tom Gradgrind’s whim;” Tom Grad- 
grind, fora bluff independent manner of speak- 
ing — as if somebody were always endeavoring 
to bribe him with immense sums to say Thomas, 
and he wouldn’t; “Tom Gradgrind’s whim, 
ma’am, of bringing up the tumbling-girl.” 

“The girl is now waiting to know,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, “whether she is to go straight to the 
school, or up to the Lodge.” 

“She must wait, ma’am,” answered Boun- 
derby, “till I know myself. We shall have 
Tom Gradgrind down here presently, I sup- 
pose. If he should wish her to remain here 
a day or two longer, of course she can, 
ma’am.” 

, “ Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. 
Bounderby.” 

“I told him I would give her a shake-down 
here, last night, in order that he might sleep 
on it before he decided to let her have any as- 
sociation with Louisa.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful 
of you 1” 

Mrs. Sparsit’s Coriolanian nose underwent a 
slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black 
eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. 

“ It’s tolerably clear to me,” said Bounder- 
by, “ that the little puss can get small good out 
of such companionship.” 


“Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, 
Mr. Bounderby?” 

“Yes, ma’am, I am speaking of Louisa.’’ 

“Your observation being limited to ‘little 
puss,’ ” said Mrs. Sparsit, “and there being two 
little girls in question, I did not know which 
might be indicated by that expression.” 

“Louisa,” repeated Mr. Bounderby. “Louisa, 
Louisa.” 

“You are quite another father to Louisa, 
sir.” Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, 
as she bent her again contracted eyebrows 
over her steaming cup, rather looked as if her 
classical countenance were invoking the infer- 
nal gods. 

“If you had said I was another father to 
Tom— young Tom, I mean, not my friend, 
Tom Gradgrind — you might have been nearer 
the mark. I am going to take young Tom 
into my office. Going to have him under my 
wing, ma’am.” 

“Indeed ? Rather young for that, is he not, 
sir ?” Mrs. Sparsit’s “sir,” in addressing Mr. 
Bounderby, was a word of ceremony, rather 
exacting consideration for herself in the use, 
than honoring him. 

“I’m not going to take him at once; he is 
to finish his educational cramming before 
then,” said Bounderby. “By the Lord Har- 
ry, he’ll have enough of it, first and last ! 
He’d open his eyes, that boy would, if he 
knew how empty of learning my young maw 
was, at his time of life.” Which, by the by, 
he probably did know, for he had heard of it 
often enough. “But it’s extraordinary the 
difficulty I have on scores of such subjects, in 
speaking to any one on equal terms. Here, 
for example, I have been speaking to you this 
morning about Tumblers. Why, what do you 
know about tumblers? At the time when, to 
have been a tumbler in the mud of the streets, 
would have been a godsend to me, a prize 
in the lottery to me, you were at the Italian 
Opera. You were coming out of the Italian 
Opera, ma’am, in white satin and jewels, a 
blaze of splendor, when I hadn’t a penny to 
buy a link to light you.” 

“I certainly, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, with 
a dignity serenely mournful, “was familiar with 
the Italian Opera at a very early age.” 

“Egad, ma’am, so was I,” said Bounderby, 
“ — with the wrong side of it. A hard bed the 
pavement of its Arcade used to make, I as- 
sure you. People like you, ma’am, accus- 
tomea from infancy to lie on Down feathers, 
have no idea hoio hard a paving-stone is, 
without trying it. No, no, it’s of no use my 
talking to you about tumblers. I should speak 
of foreign dancers, and the West End of Lon- 
don, and May Fair, and lords and ladies and 
honorables.” 

“I trust, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, with 
decent resignation, “it is not necessary that 
you should do anything of that kind. I hope 
I have learnt how to accommodate myself to 
ihe changes of life. If 1 have acquired an in- 
terest in hearing of your instructive experi- 


HARD 

ences, and can scarcely hear enongh of them, 
I claim no merit for that, since I believe it is 
a general sentiment.” 

“Well, ma’aru,” said her patron, perhaps 
some people may be pleased to say that they 
do like to hear, in his own unpolished way, 
what Josiah Bounderby of Coketown has gone 
through. But you must confess that you 
were born in the lap of luxury, yourself. Come, 
ma’am, you know you were born in the lap of 
luxury.” 

“I do not, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit with 
a shake of her head, “deny it.” 

Mr. Bounderby was obliged to get up from 
table, and stand with his back to the fire, 
looking at her; she was such an enhancement 
of his merits. 

“And you were in crack society. Devilish 
high society,” he said, warming his legs. 

“ It is true, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, with 
an affectation of humility the very opposite 
of his, and therefore in no danger of jostling 
it. 

“ You were in the tiptop fashion, and all the 
rest of it,” said Mr. Bounderby. 

“ Yes, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a 
kind of social widowhood upon her. “ It is 
unquestionably true.” 

Mr. Bounderby, bending himself at the 
knees, literally embraced his legs in his great 
satisfaction, and laughed aloud. Mr. and Miss 
Gradgrind being then announced, he received 
the former with a shake of the hand, and the 
latter with a kiss. 

“ Can Jupe be sent here, Bounderby?” asked 
Mr. Gradgrind. 

Certainly. So Jupe was sent there. On 
coming in, she curtseyed to Mr. Bounderby, 
and to his friend Tom Gradgrind, and also to 
Louisa; but in her confusion unluckily omitted 
Mrs. Sparsit. Observing this, the blustrous 
Bounderby had the following remarks to 
make ; 

“Now, I tell you what, my girl. The name 
of that lady by the teapot, is Mrs. Sparsit. 
That lady acts as mistress of this house, 
and she is a highly connected lady. Conse- 
quently, if ever you come again into any room 
in this house, you will make a short stay in it 
if you don’t behave towards that lady in your 
most respectful manner. Now, I don’t care 
a button what you do to wze, because I don’t 
affect to be anybody. So far from having high 
connexions, I have no connexions at all, and 
I come of the scum of the earth. But towards 
that lady, I do care what you do; and you shall 
do what is deferential and respectful, or you 
shall not come here.” 

“I hope, Bounderby,” said Mr. Gradgrind, 
in a conciliatory voice, “that this was merely 
an oversight.” 

“My friend Tom Gradgrind suggests, Mrs. 
Sparsit,” said Bounderby, “that this was mere- 
ly an oversight. Very likely. However, as 
you are aware, ma’am, I don’t allow of even 
oversights towards you.” 


TIMES. ‘ 99 

“You are very good indeed, sir,” returned 
Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head with her state 
humility. “It is not worth speaking of.” 

Sissy, who all this time had been faintly 
excusing herself with tears in her eyes, was 
now waved over by the master of the house 
to Mr. Gradgrind. She stood, looking intently 
at him, and Louisa stood coldly by, with her 
eyes upon the ground, while he proceeded 
thus : 

“ Jupe, I have made up my mind to take 
you into my house ; and when you are not in 
attendance at the school, to employ you about 
Mrs. Gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. I 
have explained to Miss Louisa — this is Miss 
Louisa — the miserable but natural end of your 
late career ; and you are to expressly under- 
stand that the whole of that subject is past, 
and is not to be referred to any more. From 
this time you begin your history. You are, 
at present, ignorant, I know.” 

“ Yes, sir, very,” she answered, curtseying. 

“ I shall have the satisfaction of causing 
you to be strictly educated ; and you will be 
a living proof to all who come into communi- 
cation with you, of the advantages of the 
training you will receive. You will be re- 
claimed and formed. You have been in the 
habit, now, of reading to your father, and 
those people I found you among, I dare say ?” 
said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to 
him before he said so, and dropping his voice. 

“ Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At 
least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was 
always there.” 

“Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe,” said Mr. 
Gradgrind, with a passing frown. “I don’t ask 
about him. I understand you to have been in 
the habit of reading to your father?” 

“0 yes, sir, thousands of times. They were 
the happiest — 0, of all the happy times we had 
together, sirl ” 

It was only now, when her grief broke out, 
that Louisa looked at her. 

“And what,” asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still 
lower voice, “did you read to your father, 
Jupe?” 

“About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and 
the Hunchback, and the Genies,” she sobbed 
out. 

“Therel” said Mr. Gradgrind, “that is 
enough. Never breathe a word of such de- 
structive nonsense any more. Bounderby, this 
is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe 
it with interest.” 

“Well,” returned Mr. Bounderby, “I have 
given you my opinion already, and I shouldn’t 
do as you do. But, very well, very well. Since 
you are bent upon it, very welll” 

So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took 
Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, 
and on the way Louisa never spoke one word, 
good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about 
his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got be- 
hind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom 
of that retreat, all the morning. 


100 


DICKENS^ NEW STOKIES. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

Let us strike tke key note again, before 
pursuing the tune. 

When she was half a dozen years younger, 
Louisa had been overheard to begin a conver- 
sation with her brother one day, by saying, 
^‘Tom, I wonder” — upon which Mr. Gradgrind, 
who was the person overhearing, stepped forth 
into the light, and said, “Louisa, never wonder!” 

Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art 
and mystery of educating the reason without 
stooping to the cultivation of the sentiments 
and affections. Never wonder. By means of 
addition, subtraction, multiplication and divi- 
sion, settle everything somehow, and never 
wonder. Bring to me, says M’Choakumchild, 
yonder baby just able to walk, and I will en- 
gage that it shall never wonder. 

Now, besides very many babies just able to 
walk, there happened to be in Coketown a con- 
siderable population of babies who had been 
walking against time towards the infinite world, 
twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years and more. 
These portentous infants being alarming crea- 
tures to stalk about in any human society, the 
eighteen denominations incessantly scratched 
one another’s faces and pulled one another’s 
hair, by way of agreeing on the steps to be taken 
for their improvement — which they never did; 
a surprising circumstance, when the happy 
adaptation of the means to the end is con- 
sidered. Still, although they differed in 
every other particular, conceivable and incon- 
ceivable (especially inconceivable), they were 
pretty well united on the point that these un- 
lucky infants were never to wonder. Body 
number one, said they must take everything 
on trust. Body number two, said they must 
take everything on political economy.' Body 
number three, wrote leaden little books for 
them, showing how the good grown-up baby 
invariably got to the Savings Bank, and the bad 

§ :own-up baby invariably got transported. — 
ody number four, under dreary pretences of 
being droll (when it was very melancholy in- 
deed), made the shallowest pretences of con- 
cealing pitfalls of knowledge, into which it 
was the duty of these babies to be smuggled 
and inveigled. But, all the bodies agreed that 
they were never to wonder. 

There was a library in Coketown, to which 
general access was easy. Mr. Gradgrind 
greatly tormented his mind about what the 
people read in this library: a point whereon 
little rivers of tabular statements periodically 
flowed into the howling ocean of tabular 
statements, which no diver ever got to any 
depth ill and came up sane. It was a dis- 
heartening circumstance, but a melancholy 
feet, that even these readers persisted in won- 
dering. They wondered about human nature, 
human passions, human hopes and fears, the 
struggles, triumphs and defeats, the cares 
and joys and sorrows, the lives and deaths, 
of common men and women. They some- 
times, after fifteen hours’ work, sat down to 


read mere fables about men and women, more 
or less like themselves, and children, more or 
less like their own. They took De Foe to their 
bosoms, instead ot Euclid, and seemed to be 
on the whole more comforted by Goldsmith 
than by Cocker. Mr. Gradgrind was for ever 
working, in print and out of print, at this ec- 
centric sum, and he never could make out how 
it yielded this unaccountable product. 

“ I am sick of my life. Loo. I hate it alto- 
gether, and I hate everybody except you,’’ said 
the unnatural young Thomas Gradgrind in the 
hair-cutting chamber at twilight. 

“You don’t hate Sissy, Tom.” 

“ I hate to be obliged to call her Jupe. And 
she hates me,” said Tom moodily. 

“ No she does not, Tom, I am sure.” 

“She must,” said Tom. “She must just 
hate and detest the whole set-out of us. 
They’ll bother her head off, I think, before 
they have done with her. Already she’s 
getting as pale as wax, and as heavy as — I 
am.” 

Young Thomas expressed these sentiments, 
sitting astride of a chair before the fire, with 
his arms on the back, and his sulky face on 
his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner 
by the fireside, now looking at him, now look- 
ing at the bright sparks as they dropped upon 
the hearth, 

“As to me,” said Tom, tumbling his hair 
all manner of ways with his sulky hands, “I 
am a Donkey, that’s what I am. I am as 
obstinate as one, I am more stupid than one- 
I get as much pleasure as one, and I should 
like to kick like one.” 

“Not me, I hope, Tom?” 

“No, Loo ; I wouldn’t hurt you. I made an 
exception of you at first. I don’t know what 
this — jolly old — Jaundiced Jail — ” — Tom had 
paused to find a sufficiently complimentary 
and expressive name for the parental roof, 
and seemed to relieve his mind for a moment 
by the strong alliteration of this one, “would 
be without you.” 

“Indeed, Tom ? Do you really and truly 
say so ?” 

“ Why, of course I do. What’s the use of 
talking about it I” returned Tom, chafing his 
face on his coat sleeve as if to mortify his flesh, 
and have it in unison with his spirit. 

“Because, Tom,” said his sister, after silent- 
ly watching the sparks awhile, “as I get older, 
and nearer growing up, I often sit wondering 
here, and think how unfortunate it is for me 
that I can’t reconcile you to home better than 
I am able to do. I don’t know what other 
girls know. I can’t play to you, or sing to 
you. I can’t talk to you so as to lighten your 
mind, for I never see any amusing sights or 
read any amusing books that it would be a 
pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when 
you are tired.” 

“Well, no more do 1. I am as bad as you 
in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which 
you’re not. If father was determined to make 
me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a 


HARD TIMES. 


Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a 
Mule. And so I am,” said Tom, desperately. 

“ It’s a great pity,” said Louisa, after ano- 
ther pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of 
her dark corner ; “ its a great pity, Tom. It’s 
very unfortunate for both of us.” 

Oh 1 You,” said Tom ; “you are a girl. 
Loo, and & girl comes out of it better than a 
boy does. I don’t miss anything in you. You 
are the only pleasure I have — you can brighten 
even this place — and you can always lead me 
as you like.” 

“ You are a dear brother, Tom; and while 
you think I can do such things, I don’t so 
much mind knowing better. Though I do 
know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it.” 
She came and kissed him, and went back into 
her corner again. 

“ I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear 
so much about,” said Tom, spitefully setting 
his teeth, “ and all the Figures, and all the 
people who found them out; and I wish I 
could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder 
under them, and blow them all up together I 
However, when I go to live with old Boun- 
derby. I’ll have my revenge.” 

“ Your revenge, Tom ?” 

“ I mean. I’ll enjoy myself a little, and go 
about and see something, and hear something. 
I’ll recompense myself for the way in which 
I have been brought up.” 

But don’t disappoint yourself beforehand, 
Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, 
and is a great deal rougher, and not half so 
kind.’^ 

“Oh I” said Tom, laughing; “I don’t mind 
that. I shall very well know how to manage 
and smooth old Bounderbyl” 

Their shadows were defined upon the wall, 
but those of the high presses in the room were 
all blended together on the wall and on the 
ceiling, as if the brother and sister were over- 
hung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagi- 
nation — if such treason could have been there 
— might have made it out to be the shadow of 
their subject, and of its lowering association 
with their fu^re. 

“What is your great mode of smoothing and 
managing, Tom? Is it a secret?” 

“ OhI” said Tom, “if it is a secret, it’s not 
far off. It’s you. You are his little pet, you 
are his favorite; he’ll do anything lor you. 
When he says to me what I don’t like, I shall 
say to him, ‘My sister Loo will be hurt and dis- 
appointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used 
to tell me she was sure you would be easier 
with me than this.’ That’ll bring him about, 
or nothing will.” 

After waiting for some answering remark 
and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into 
the present time, and twined himself yawning 
round and about the rails of his chair, and 
rumpled his head more and more, until he sud- 
denly looked up, and asked: 

“Have you gone to sleep, Loo?” 

“No, Tom. I am looking at the fire.” 

“You seem to find more to look at in it 


101 

than ever I could find,” said Tom. “Another 
of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl.” 

“Tom,” inquired his sister, slowly, and in a 
curious tone, as if she were reading what she 
asked, in the fire, and it were not quite plainly 
written* there, “do you look forward with any 
satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby’s?” 

“Why, there’s one thing to be said of it,” re- 
turned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and 
standing up; “it will be getting away from 
home.” 

“There is one thing to be said of it,” Louisa 
repeated in her former curious tone; “it will 
be getting away from home. Yes.” 

‘‘Not but what I shall be very unwilling, 
both to leave you. Loo, and to leave you 
here. But I must go, you know, whether I 
like it or not; and I had better go where I can 
take with me some advantage of your in- 
fluence, than where I should lose it altogether. 
Don’t you see?” 

“Yes, Tom.” 

The answer was so long in coming, though 
there was no indecision in it’ that Tom went 
and leaned on the back of her chair, to con- 
template the fire which so engrossed her, from 
her point of view, and see what he could make 
of it. 

“Except that it is a fire,” said Tom,” it 
looks to me as stupid and blank as everything 
else looks. What do you see in it? Not a 
circus?” 

“I don’t see anything in it, Tom, parti- 
cularly. But since I have been looking at it, 
I have been wondering about you and me, 
grown up.” 

“ W ondering again 1” said Tom. 

“ I have such unmanageable thoughts,” re- 
turned his sister, ‘‘ that they will wonder.” 

“ Then I beg of you, Louisa,” ,|aid Mrs. 
Gradgrind, who had opened the doOir' without 
being heard, “ to do nothing of that descrip- 
tion, for goodness sake, you inconsiderate girl, 
or I shall never hear the last of it from your 
father. And Thomas, it is really shameful, 
with my poor head continually wearing me 
out, that a boy brought up as you have been, 
and whose education has cost what yours has, 
should be found encouraging his sister to won- 
der, when he knows his father has expressly 
said that she is not to do it.” 

Louisa denied Tom’s participation in the 
offence; but her mother stopped her with the 
conclusive answer, “Louisa, don’t tell me, iu 
my state of health; for unless you had been 
encouraged, it is morally and physically im- 
possible that you could have done it.” 

“1 was encouraged by nothing, mother, but 
by looking at the red sparks dropping out of 
the fire, and whitening and dying. It made 
me think, after all, how short my life would 
be, and how little I could hope to do in it.” 

“ Nonsense I” said Mrs. Gradgrind, rendered 
almost energetic. “ Nonsense 1 Don’t stand 
there and tell me such stuff, Louisa, 1o my 
face, when you know very well that if it was 
ever to reach your father’s ears I should never 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


102 

hear the last of it. After all the trouble that has 
beentaken with you ! After the lectures you 
have attended, and the experiments you have 
seen I After I have heard you myself, when 
the whole of my right side has been benumbed, 
going on with your master about combus- 
tion, and calcination, and calorification, and I 
may say every kind of ation that could drive a 
poor invalid distracted, to hear you talking in 
this absurd way about sparks and ashes I I 
wish,” whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, taking a 
chair, and discharging her strongest point be- 
fore succumbing under these mere shadows of 
facts, “yes, I really do wish that I had never 
had a family, and then you would have known 
what it was to do without me 1” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Sissy Jupe had not an easy time of it, be- 
tween Mr. M‘Choakum child and Mrs. Grad- 
grind, and was not without strong impulses in 
the first months of her probation, to run away. 
It hailed facts all day long so very hard, and 
life in general was opened to her as such a 
closely-ruled cyphering-book, that assuredly 
she would have run away, but for only one 
restraint. 

It is lamentable to think of; but this re- 
straint was the result of no arithmetical pro- 
cess, was self-imposed in defiance of all calcu- 
lation, and went dead against any table of pro- 
babilities that any Actuary would have drawn 
up from the premises. The girl believed that 
her father had not deserted her ; she lived in 
the hope that he would come back, and in the 
faith that he would be made the happier by 
her remaining where she was. 

The wretched ignorance with which Jupe 
clung to this consolation, rejecting the superior 
comfort of knowing, on a sound arithmetical 
basis, that her father was an unnatural vaga- 
bond, filled Mr. Gradgrind with pity. Yet, 
what was to be done ? M’Choakumchild 
reported that she had a very dense head 
for figures ; that, once possessed with a 
general idea of the globe, she took the 
smallest conceivable interest in its exact 
measurements; that she was extremely slow 
in the acquisition of dates, unless some pitiful 
incident happened to be connected therewith; 
that she would burst into tears on being 
required (by the mental process) immediately 
to name the cost of two hundred and forty- 
seven muslin caps at fourteenpence halfpenny; 
that she was as low down, in the school, as 
low could be ; that after eight weeks of induc- 
tion into the elements of Political Economy, 
she had only yesterday been set right by a 
prattler three feet high, for returning to the 
question, “What is the first principle of this 
science?” the absurd answer, “To do unto 
others as I would that they should do unto 
me.” 

Mr. Gradgrind observed, shaking his head, 
that all this was very bad; that it showed 
the necessity of infinite grinding at the mill 


of knowledge, as per system, schedule, blue 
book report, and tabular statements A to Z ; 
and that Jupe “ must be kept to it.” So Jupe 
was kept to it, and became very low spirited, 
but no wiser. 

“ It would be a fine thing to be you. Miss 
Louisa 1” she said one night, when Louisa 
had endeavored to make her perplexities for 
next day something clearer to her. 

“ Do you think so ? ” 

“ I should know so much. Miss Louisa. All 
that is difficult to me now, would be so easy 
then.” 

“You might not be the better for it. Sissy.” ^ 

Sissy submitted, after a little hesitation, *■ 
“I should not be the worse, Miss Louisa.” 
To which Miss Louisa answered, “I don’t 
know that.” 

There had been so little communication be- 
tween these two — both because life at Stone 
Lodge went monotonously round like a piece 
of machinery wffich discouraged human inter- 
ference, and bemuse of the prohibition rela- 
tive to Sissy’s past career — that they were still 
almost strangers. Sissy, with her dark eyes 
wonderingly directed to Louisa’s face, was 
uncertain whether to say more or to remain 
silent. 

“You are more useful to my mother, and 
more pleasant with her than I can ever be,” 
Louisa resumed. “You are pleasanter to your- 
self, than I am to WT/self.” 

“But, if you please. Miss Louisa,” Sissy 
pleaded, “I am — 0 so stupid 1” 

Louisa, with a brighter laugh than usual, 
told her she would be wiser by and by. 

“You don’t know,” said Sissy, half crying, 
“what a stupid girl I am. All through school 
hours I make mistakes. Mr. and Mrs. 
M^Choakumchild call me up, over and over 
again, regularly to make mistakes. I can’t 
help them. They seem to come natural to 
me.” 

“Mr. and Mrs. M^Choakumchild never make 
any mistakes themselves, I suppose. Sissy?” 

“0 nol” she eagerly returned. “They know 
everything.” 

“Tell me some of your mistakes.” 

“I am almost ashamed,” said Sissy, with re- 
luctance. “But to-day, for instance, Mr. 
M‘Choakumchild was explaining to us about 
Natural Prosperity.” 

“National, I think it must have been,” ob- 
served Louisa. 

“Yes, it was — But isn’t it the same?” she 
timidly asked. 

“You had better say, National, as he said 
so,” returned Louisa, with her dry reserve. 

“National Prosperity. And he said. Now, 
this schoolroom is a Nation. And in this na- 
tion, there are fifty millions of money. Isn’t 
this a prosperous nation? Girl number twenty, 
isn’t this a prosperous nation, and a’n’t you in 
a thriving state?” 

“What did you say?” asked Louisa. 

“Miss Louisa, I said I didn’t know. I 
thought I couldn’t know whether it was a 


HARD ' 

prosperous nation or not, and whether I was I 
in a thriving state or not, unless I knew who 
had got the money, and whether any of it 
was mine. But that had nothing to do with 
it It was not in the figures at all,” said 
Sissy, wiping her eyes. 

“ That was a great mistake of yours,” 
observed Louisa. 

“Yes, Miss Louisa, I know it was now. 
Then Mr. M‘Choakumchild said he would try 
me again. And he said, this schoolroom is 
an immense town, and in it there are a million 
of inhabitants, and only five-and-twenty are 
starved to death in the streets, in the course 
of a year. What is your remark on that 
proportion ? And my remark was — for I 
couldn’t think of a better one — that I thought 
it must be iust as hard upon those who were 
starved, whether the others were a million, 
or a million million. And that was wrong, 
too.” 

“Of course it was.” 

“Then Mr. M’Choakumchild said he would 
try me once more. And he said. Here are the 
sfutterings ” 

“Statistics,” said Louisa. 

“Yes, Miss Louisa — they always remind me 
of stutterings, and that’s another of my mis- 
takes — of accidents upon the sea. And I find 
(Mr. M’Choakumchild said) that in a given 
time a hundred thousand persons went to sea 
on long voyages, and only five hundred of them 
were drowned or burned to death. What is 
the percentage ? And I said. Miss;” here Sissy 
fairly sobbed as confessing with extreme con- 
trition to her greatest error ; “I said it was 
nothing.” 

“Nothing, Sissy?” 

“Nothing, Miss — ^tothe relations ana friends 
of the people who were killed. I shall never 
learn,” said Sissy. “And the worst of all is, 
that although my poor father wished me so 
much to learn, and although I am so anxious 
to learn because he wished me to, I am afraid 
I don’t like it.” 

Louisa stood looking at the pretty modest 
head, as it drooped abashed before her, until 
it was raised again to glance at her face. Then 
she asked; 

“Did your father know so much himself, 
that he wished you to be well taught too. 
Sissy?” 

Sissy hesitated before replying, and so plain- 
ly showed her sense that they were entering 
on forbidden ground, that Louisa added, “No 
one hears us; and if any one did, I am sure 
no harm could be found in such an innocent 
question.” 

“'No, Miss Louisa,” answered Sissy, upon 
this encouragement, shaking her head; “father 
knows very little indeed. It’s as much as he 
can do to write; and it’s more than people in 
general can do to read his writing. Though 
it’s plain to me.” 

“Your mother?” 

“Father says she was quite a scholar. She 
died when I was born. She was;” Sissy made 


TIMES. 103 

I the terrible communication nervously ; “she 
was a dancer.” 

“Did your father love libr?” Louisa asked 
these questions with a strong, wild, wandering 
interest peculiar to her; an interest gone 
astray like a banished creature, and hiding in 
solitary places. 

“0 yes 1 As dearly as he loves me. Father 
loved me, first, for her sake. He carried me 
about with him when I was quite a baby. We 
have never been asunder from that time.” 

“Yet he leaves you now. Sissy ?” 

“Only for my good. Nobody understands 
him as I do; nobody knows him as I do. 
When he left me for my good — he never would 
have left me for his own — I know he was 
almost broken-hearted with the trial. He will 
not be happy for a single minute, till he comes 
back.” 

“Tell me more about him,” said Louisa, “I 
will never ask you again. Where did you 
live ?” 

“'We travelled about the country, and had 
no fixed place to live in. Father’s a ;” Sissy 
whispered the awful word; “a clown.” ' 

“To make the people laugh?” said Louisa, 
with a nod of intelligence. 

“Yes. But they wouldn’t laugh sometimes, 
and then father cried. Lately, they very 
often wouldn’t laugh, and he used to come 
home despairing. Father ’s not like most. 
'Those who didn’t know him as well as I do, 
and didn’t love him as dearly as I do, might 
believe he was not quite right. Sometimes 
they played tricks upon him ; but they never 
knew how he felt them, and shrunk up, when 
he was alone with me. He was far, far 
timider than they thoughtl” 

“And you were his comfort through every 
thing?” 

She nodded, with the tears rolling down her 
face. “I hope so, and father said I was. It 
was because he grew so scared and trembling, 
and because he felt himself to be a poor, 
weak, ignorant, helpless man, (those used to 
be his words,) that he wanted me so much to 
know a great deal and be different from him. 
I used to read to him to cheer his courage, 
and he was very fond of that. They were 
wrong books — I am never to speak of them 
here — but we didn’t know there was any harm 
in them.” 

“And he liked them ?” said Louisa, with her 
searching gaze on Sissy all this time. 

“0 very much I They kept him, many times, 
from what did him real harm. And often and 
often of a night, he used to forget all his trou- 
bles in wondering whether the Sultan would 
let the lady go on with the story, or would have 
her head cut off before it was finished.” 

“And your father was always kind ? To the 
last?” asked Louisa; contravening the gree'’ 
principle, and wondering very much. 

“Always, always !” returned Sissy, clasping 
her hands. “Kinder and kinder than I can 
tell. He was angry only one night, and that 
was not to me, but Merrylegs. Merrylegs 


104 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


Bhe wtispered the awful fact ; ‘^is his perform- 
ing dog.” 

“Why was he angry with the dog?” Louisa 
demanded. 

“Father, soon after they came home from 
performing, told Merrylegs to jump up on the 
hacks of the two chairs and stand across them, 
which is one of .his tricks. He looked at 
father, and didn’t do it at once. Everything 
of father’s had gone wrong that night, and he 
hadn’t pleased the public at all. He cried out 
that the very dog knew he was failing, and 
had no compassion on him. Then he beat the 
dog, and I was frightened, and said — “Father, 
father ! Pray don’t hurt the creature who is so 
fond of you I , 0 Heaven forgive you, father, 
stop!” And he stopped, and the dog was 
bloody, and father lay down crying on the 
floor with the dog in his arms, and the dog 
licked his face.” 

Louisa saw that she was sobbing ; and go- 
ing to her, kissed her, took her hand, and sat 
down beside her. 

“ Finish by telling me how your father left 
you. Sissy. Now that I have asked you so 
much, tell me the end. The blame, if there 
is any blame, is mine : not yours.” 

“Dear Miss Louisa,” said Sissy, covering 
her eyes, and sobbing yet ; “ I came home 
from the school that afternoon, and found poor 
father just come home too, from the booth. — 
And he sat rocking himself over the fire as if 
he was in pain. And I said, ‘Have you hurt 
yourself, father?’ (as he did sometimes, like 
they all did), and he said ‘ A little, my dar- 
ling.’ And when I came to stoop down and 
look up at his face, I saw that he was cry- 
ing. The more I spoke to him, the more 
he hid his face; and at first he shook all 
over, and said nothing but ‘My darling!’ and 
‘ My love !’ ” 

Here Tom came lounging in, and stared at 
the two with a coolness not particularly savor- 
ing of interest in anything but himself, and not 
much of that at present. 

“ I am asking Sissy a few questions, Tom,” 
observed his sister. “ You have no occasion 
to go away ; but don’t interrupt us for a mo- 
ment, Tom dear.” 

“ Oh ! very well I” returned Tom. “ Only 
father has' brought old Bounderby home, and 
I want you to come into the drawing-room. 
Because if you come, there’s a good chance of 
old Bounderby’s asking me to dinner; and if 
you don’t, there’s none.” 

“I’ll come directly.” 

“I’ll wait for you,” said Tom, “to make 
sure.” 

Sissy resumed in a lower voice. “At last 
poor father said that he had given no satisfac- 
tion again, and never did give any satisfac- 
tion now, and that he was a shame and 
disgrace, and I should have done better with- 
out him all along. I said all the affectionate 
things to him that came into my heart, and 
presently he was quiet and I sat down by him, 
and told him aU about the school and every- 


thing that had been said and done there. 
When I had no more left to tell, he put his 
arms round n^ neck, and kissed me a great 
many times. Then he asked me to fetch some 
of the stuff he used, for the little hurt he had 
had, and to get it at the best place, which was 
at the other end of town from there; and then, 
after kissing me again, he let me go. When I 
had gone down stairs, I turned back that I 
might be a little bit more company to him yet, 
and looked in at the door, and said, ‘Father 
dear, shall I take Merrylegs?’ Father shook his 
head and said, ‘No, Sissy, no; take nothing 
that’s known to be mine, my darling;’ and I left 
him sitting by the fire. Then the thought must 
have come upon him, poor, poor father! of going 
away to try something for my sake; for. when 
I came back, he was gone.” 

“I say! Look sharp for old Bounderby,'* 
Loo !” Tom remonstrated. 

“There’s no more to tell, Miss Louisa. I 
keep the nine oils ready for him, and I know 
he will come back. Every letter that I see in 
Mr. Gradgrind’s hand takes my breath away 
and blinds my eyes, for I think it comes from 
father, or from Mr. Sleary about father. Mr. 
Sleary promised to write as soon as ever father 
should be heard of, and I trust to him to keep 
his word.” 

“Do look sharp for old Bounderby, Loo 1” 
said Tom, with an impatient whistle. “ He’ll 
be off, if you don’t look sharp!” 

After this, whenever Sissy dropped a curt- 
sey to Mr. Gradgrind in the presence of his 
family, and said in a faltering way, “I beg 
your pardon, sir, for being troublesome — but 
— have you had any letter yet about me ?” 
Louisa would suspend the occupation of the 
moment, whatever it was, and look for the 
reply as earnestly as Sissy did. And when 
Mr. Gradgrind regularly answered, “No, 
Jupe, nothing of the sort,” the trembling of 
Sissy’s lip would be repeated in Louisa’s face, 
and her eyes would follow Sissy with com- 
passion to the door. Mr. Gradgrind usually 
improved these occasions by remarking, when 
she was gone, that if Jupe had been properly 
trained from an early age, she would have 
demonstrated to herself on sound principles 
the baselessness of these fantastic hopes. 
Yet it did seem (though not to him, for he 
saw nothing of it), as if fantastic hope could 
take as strong a hold as Fact. 

This observation must be limited exclusively 
to his daughter. As to Tom, he was becoming 
that not unprecedented triumph of calcula- 
tion which is usually at work on number one. 
As to Mrs. Gradgrind, if she said anything 
on the subject, she would come a little way out 
of her wrappers, like a feminine dormouse, and 
say: 

“Good gracious bless me, how my poor 
head is vexed and worried by that girl Jupe’s 
so perseveringly asking, over and over again, 
about her tiresome letters ! Upon my word 
and honor, I seem to be fated, and destined, 
and ordained, to live in the midst of things that 


HARD 

I am never to tear tte last of. It really is a 
most extraordinary circumstance that it ap- 
pears as if I never was to hear the last of any- 
thing!” 

At about this point, Mr. Gradgrind’s eye 
would fall upon her; and under the influence 
of that' wintry piece of fact, she would become 
torpid again. 


CHAPTER X. 

I entertain a weak idea that the English 
people are as hard-worked as any people upon 
whom the sun shines. I acknowledge to this 
ridiculous idiosyncrasy, as a reason why I 
would give them a little more play. 

In the hardest working part of Coketown; in 
the innermost fortifications of that ugly citadel, 
where Nature was as strongly bric&d out as 
killing airs and gases were bricked in ; at 
the heart of the labyrinth of narrow courts 
upon courts, and close streets upon streets, 
which had come into existence piecemeal, 
every piece in a violent hurry for some one 
man’s purpose, and the whole an unnatural 
family, shouldering, and trampling, and press- 
ing one another to death; in the last close 
nook of this great exhausted receiver, where 
the chimneys, for want of air to make a 
draught, were built in an immense variety of 
stunted and crooked shapes, as though every 
house put out a sign of the kind of people, 
who might be expected to be born in it; 
among the multitude of Coketown, generi- 
cally called “ the Hands,”— a race who would 
have found more favor with some people, if 
Providence had seen fit to make them only 
hands, or like the lower creatures of the sea- 
shore, only hands and stomachs — lived a 
certain Stephen Blackpool, forty years of age. 

Stephen looked older, but he had had a hard 
life. It is said that every life has its roses and 
thorns; there seemed, however, to have been 
a misadventure or mistake in Stephen’s 
case, whereby somebody else had become 
possessed of his roses, and he had become 
possessed of the same somebody else’s thorns 
in addition to his own. He had known, to use 
his words, a peck of trouble. He was usually 
called Old Stephen, in a kind of rough homage 
to the fact. 

A rather stooping man, with a knitted 
brow, a pondering expression of face, and a hard- 
looking head sufficiently capacious, on which 
his iron-grey hair lay long and thin. Old Stephen 
mi^^ht have passed for a particularly intelligent 
man in his condition. Yet he was not. He 
took no place among those remarkable 
“Hands,” who, piecing together their broken 
intervals of leisure through many years, had 
mastered difficult sciences, and acquired a 
knowledge of most unlikely things. He held 
no station among the Hands who could make 
speeches and carry on debates. Thousands of 
his compeers could talk much better than he, 
.’it any time. He was a good power-loom 
^yeaver, and a man of perfect integrity. What 


HMES. 105 

more he was, or what else he had in him, if 
anything, let him show for himself. 

The lights in the great factories, which 
looked, when they were illuminated, like Fairy 
palaces — or the travellers by express train 
said so — were all extinguished; and the bells 
had rung for knocking off for the night, and 
had ceased again; and the hands, men and 
women, boy and girl, were clattering home. 
Old Stephen was standing in the street, with 
the odd sensation upon him which the stop- 
page of the machinery always produced — the 
sensation of its having worked and stopped in 
his own head. 

“Yet I don’t see Rachael, still 1” said he. 

It was a wet night, and many groups of 
young women passed him, with their shawls 
drawn over their bare heads and held close 
under their chins to keep the rain out. He 
knew Rachael well, for a glance at any one of 
these groups was sufficient to show him that 
she was not there. At last, there were no 
more to come ; and then he turned away, say- 
ing in a tone of disappointment, “Why, then, 
I ha’ missed her I” 

But, he had not gone the length of three 
streets, when he saw another of the shawled 
figures in advance of him, at which he looked 
so keenly that perhaps its mere shadow indis- 
tinctly reflected on the wet pavement — if he 
could have seen it without the figure it- 
self moving along from lamp to lamp, bright- 
ening and fading as it went — would have 
been enough to tell him who was there — 
Making his pace at once much quicker and 
much softer, he darted on until he was very 
near this figure, then fell into his former walk, 
and called “ Rachael I” 

She turned, being then in the brightness of 
a lamp ; and raising her hood a little, showed 
a quiet oval face, dark and rather delicate, 
irradiated by a pair of very gentle eyes, and 
further set off by the perfect order of her shin- 
ing black hair. It was not a face in its first 
bloom ; she was a woman five and thirty years 
of age. 

“ Ah, lad I ’Tis thou ?” when she had 
said this, with a smile which would have been 
quite expressed, though nothing of her had 
been seen but her pleasant eyes, she replaced 
her hood again, and they went on together. 

“I thought thou wast ahind me, Rachael?” 

“No.” 

“Early t’night, lass?” 

“’Times I’m a little early, Stephen; ’times 
a little late. I’m never to be counted on, 
going home.” 

“Nor going t’other way, neither, ’t seems to 
me, Rachael?” 

“No, Stephen.” 

He looked at her with some disappoint- 
ment in his face, but with a respectful and 
patient conviction that she must be right in 
whatever she did. The expression was not 
lost upon her; she laid her hand lightly on 
his arm a moment, as if to thank him for it. 

“We are such true friends, lad, and such old 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


106 

friends, and getting to be such old folk, 
now.” 

“No, Rachael, thou’rt as young as ever thou 
wast.” 

“One of us would be puzzled how to get old, 
Stephen, without t’other getting so too, both 
being alive,” she answered, laughing; “but, 
any ways, we’re such old friends, that t’hide a 
word of honest truth fra’one another would 
be a sin and a pity. ’Tis better not to walk 
too much together. ’Times, yesl ’Twould be 
hard, indeed, if ’twas not to be at all,” she 
said, with a cheerfulness she sought to com- 
municate to him. 

“’Tis hard, anyways, Rachael.” 

“Try to think not; and ’twill seem better.” 

“I’ve tried a long time, and ’ta’nt got bet- 
ter. But thou’rt right; ’tmight make folk talk, 
even of thee. Thou hast been that to me, 
Rachael, through so many year: thou hast done 
me so much good, and heartened of me in 
that cheering way: that thy word is a law to 
me. Ah, lass, and a bright good lawl Better 
than some real ones.” 

“Never fret about them, Stephen,” she 
answered quickly, and not without an anxious 
glance at his face. “Let the laws be.” 

“Yes,” he said, with a slow nod or two. 
“Let ’em be. Let everything be. Let all 
sorts alone. ’Tis a muddle, and that’s all.” 

“Always a muddle ?” said Rachael, with 
another gentle touch upon his arm, as if 
to recall him out of the thoughtfulness, in 
which he was biting the long ends of his 
loose neckerchief as he walked along. The 
touch had its instantaneous effect. He let 
them fall, turned a smiling face upon her, and 
said, as he broke into a good humored laugh, 
“Ay, Rachael, lass, awlus a muddle. That’s 
where I stick. I come to the muddle many 
times and agen, and I never get bejond it.” 

They had walked some distance, and were 
near their own homes. The woman’s was the 
first reached. It was in one of the many 
small streets for which the favorite under- 
taker (who turned a handsome sum out of 
the one poor ghastly pomp of the neighbor- 
hood) kept a black ladder, in order that those 
who had done their daily groping up and 
down the narrow stairs might slide out of this 
working world by the windows. She stopped 
at the corner, and putting her hand in his, 
wished him good night. 

“Good night, dear lass; good night 1” 

She went, with her neat figure and her sober 
womanly step, down the dark street, and he 
stood looking after her until she turned into 
one of the small houses. There was not a flut- 
ter of her coarse shawl, perhaps, but had its 
interest in this man’s eyes; not a tone of her 
voice but had its echo in his innermost heart. 

When she was lost to his view, he pursued 
his homeward way, glancing up sometimes at 
the sky, where the clouds were sailing fast 
and wildly. But they were broken now, and 
the rain had ceased, and the moon shone — 
looking down the high chimneys of Coketown, 


on the deep furnaces below, and casting Ti- 
tanic shadows of the steam engines at rest, 
upon the walls where they were lodged. The 
man seemed to have brightened with the night, 
as he went on. 

His home, in such another street as the 
first, saving that it was narrower, was over a 
little shop. How it came to pass that any 
people found it worth their while to sell or 
buy the wretched little toys, mixed up iu/its 
window with cheap newspapers and perk 
(there was a leg to be raffled for to-morrow 
night), matters not here. He took his end of 
candle from a shelf, lighted it at another end 
of candle on the counter, without disturbing 
the mistress of the shop who was asleep in 
her little room, and went up stairs into hia 
lodging. ^ , 

It was a room, not unacquainted with the 
black ladder under various tenants ; but as 
neat, at present, as such a room could be. A 
few books and writings were on an old bureau 
in a corner, the furniture was decent and suf- 
ficient, and, though the atmosphere was taint- 
ed, the room was clean. 

Going to the hearth to set the candle down 
upon a round three-legged table standing 
there, he stumbled against something. As he 
recoiled, looking down at it, it raised itself up 
into the form of a woman in a sitting attitude. 

“Heaven’s mercy, woman 1” he cried, falling 
farther off from the figure; “Hast thou come 
back again!” 

Such a womanl A disabled, drunken crea- 
ture, barely able to preserve the sitting posture 
by steadying herself with one begrimed hand 
on the floor, while the other was so purposeless 
in trying to push away her tangled hair from 
her face, that it only blinded her the more with 
the dirt upon it. A creature so foul to look 
at, in her tatters, stains, and splashes, but so 
much fouler than that in her moral ibfamy, 
that it was a shameful thing even to see her. 

After an impatient oath or two, and some 
stupid clawing of herself with the hand not 
necessary to her support, she got her hair 
away from her eyes sufficiently to obtain a 
sight of him. Then she sat swaying her body 
to and fro, and making gestures with her un- 
nerved arm, which seemed intended as the ac- 
companiment to a fit of laughter, though her 
face was stolid and drowsy. 

“Eigh lad? What, yo’r there?” Some hoarse 
sounds meant for this, came mockingly out of 
her at last; and her head dropped forward on 
her breast. 

“Back agen?” she screeched, after some 
minutes, as if he had that moment said it. 
“Yes 1 And back agen. Back agen ever and 
ever so often. Back? Yes, back. Why not?” 

Roused by the unmeaning violence with 
which she cried it out, she scrambled up, and 
stood supporting herself with her shoulders 
against the wall; dangling in one hand by the 
string, a dunghill fragment of a bonnet, and 
trying to look scornfully at him. 

“I’ll sell thee off again, and I’ll sell thee off 


HARD TIMES. 


again, and I’ll sell thee ofif a seore of times!” 
she cried, with something between a furious 
menace and an effort at a defiant dance. 
“Come awa’ from th’ bed!” He was sitting on 
the side of it, with his face hidden in his hands. 
“Come awa’ from ’t. ’Tis mine, and I’ve a 
right to ’t!” 

As she staggered to it, he avoided her with 
a shudder, and passed — his face still hidden — 
to the opposite end of the room. She threw 
herself upon the bed heavily, and soon was 
snoring hard. He sunk into a chair, and moved 
but once all that night. It was to throw a 
covering over her; as if his hands were not 
enough to hide her, even in the darkness. 


CHAPTER XL 

The Fairy palaces, burst out into illumina- 
tion, before pale morning, showed the mon- 
strous serpents of smoke trailing themselves 
over Coketown. A clattering of clogs upon 
the pavement ; a rapid ringing of bells ; and 
all the melancholy-mad elephants, polished 
and oiled up for the day’s monotony, were at 
their heavy exercise again. 

Stephen bent over his loom, quiet, watchful, 
and steady. A special contrast, as every man 
was in the forest of looms where Stephen 
worked, to the crashing, smashing, tearing 
piece of mechanism at which he labored. — 
Never fear, good people of an anxious turn of 
mind, that Art will consign Nature to oblivion. 
Set aijywhere, side by side, the work of God 
and the work of man 5 and the former, even 
though it be a troop of Hands of very small 
account, will gain in solemn dignity from the 
comparison. 

Four hundred and more Hands in this Mill; 
Two hundred and fifty horse Steam Power. It 
18 known, to the force of a single pound weight, 
what the engine will do; but, not all the calcu- 
lators of the National Debt can tell me the ca- 
pacity for good or evil, for love or hatred, for 
patriotism or discontent, for the decomposition 
of virtue into vice, or the reverse, at any single 
moment in the soul of one of these its quiet 
servants, with the composed faces and the regu- 
lated actions. There is no mystery in it; there 
is an unfathomable mystery in the meanest of 
them, for ever. Supposing we were to reserve 
our arithmetic for material objects, and to 
govern these awfiil unknown quantities by other 
means ! 

The day grew strong, and showed itself 
outside, even against the flaming lights within. 
The lights were turned out, and the work went 
on. The rain fell, and the Smoke-serpents, 
submissive to the curse of all that tribe, trailed 
themselves upon the earth. In the waste- 
yard outside, the steam from the escape-pipe, 
the litter of barrels and old iron, the shining 
heaps of coals, the ashes everywhere, were 
shrouded in a veil of mist and rain. 

The work went on, until the noon-bell 
rang. More clattering upon the pavements. 


107 

The looms, and wheels, and Hands, all out of 
gear for an hour. 

Stephen came out of the hot mill into the 
damp wind and the cold wet streets, haggard 
and worn. He turned from his own class and 
his own quarter, taking nothing but a little 
bread as he walked along, towards the hill on 
which his principal employer lived, in a red 
house with black outside shutters, green 
inside blinds, a black street door, up two white 
steps, Bounderby (in letters very like him- 
self ) upon a brazen plate, and a round brazen 
door-handle underneath it like a brazen full- 
stop. 

Mr. Bounderby was at his lunch. So Ste- 
phen had expected. Would his servant say 
that one of the Hands begged leave to speak 
to him ? Message in return, requiring name 
of such Hand. Stephen Blackpool. There 
was nothing troublesome, against Stephen 
Blackpool; yes, he might come in. 

Stephen Blackpool in the parlor. Mr. 
Bounderby (whom he just knew by sight), at 
lunch on chop and sherry. Mrs. Sparsit net- 
ting at the fireside, in a side-saddle attitude, 
with one foot in a cotton stirrup. It was a 
part, at once of Mrs. Sparsit’s dignity and 
service, not to lunch. She supervised the 
meal officially, but implied that in her own 
stately person she considered lunch a weak- 
ness. 

“Now, Stephen,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
“what’s the matter with you V' 

Stephen made a bow. Not a servile one — 
these Hands will never do that ! Lord bless 
you, sir, you’ll never batch them at that, if they 
have been with you twenty years ! — and, as 
a complimentary toilet for Mrs. Sparsit, tucked 
his neckerchief ends into his waistcoat. 

“Now, you know,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
taking some sherry, “we have never had any 
difficulty with you, and you have never been 
one of the unreasonable ones. You don’t ex- 
pect to be set up in a coach and six, and to be 
fed on turtle-soup and venison, with a gold 
spoon, as a good many of ’em do ;” Mr. Boun- 
derby always represented this to be the sole, 
immediate, and direct object of any Hand who 
was not entirely satisfied ; “and therefore I 
know already that you have not come here 
to make a complaint. Now, you know, I am 
certain of that, before hand.” 

“ No, sir, sure I ha’ not coom for nowt 0 ’ 
th’ kind.” 

Mr. Bounderby seemed agreeably surprised, 
notwithstanding his previous strong conviction. 
“ Very well,” he returned. “ You’re a steady 
Hand, and_I was not mistaken. Now, let me 
hear what it’s all about. As it’s not that, let 
me hear what it is. What have you got to say? 
Out with it, lad 1” 

Stephen happened to glance towards Mrs. 
Sparsit. “ I can go, Mr. Bounderby, if you 
wish it,” said that self-sacrificing lady, making 
a feint of taking her foot out of the stirrup. 

Mr. Bounderby stayed her, by holding a 
mouthful of chop H suspension before swab 


108 


DICKENS^ NEW STOKIES. 


lowing it, and putting out his left band. 
Then, withdrawing his hand and swallowing 
his mouthful of chop, he said to Stephen : 

“Now, you know, this good lady is a born 
lady, a high lady. You are not to suppose 
because she keeps my house for me, that she 
hasn’t been very high up the tree — ah, up 
at the top of the tree! Now, if you have 
got anything to say that can’t be said before 
a born lady, this lady will leave the room. 
If what you have got to say, can be said 
before a born lady, this lady will stay where 
she is.” 

“ Sir, I hope I never had nowt to say 
not fitten for a born lady to hear, sin’ I were 
born mysen’,” was the reply, accompanied 
with a slight flush. 

“Very well,” said Mr. Bounderby, pushing 
away his plate, and leaning back. “ Fire 
away 1” 

“I ha’ coom,” Stephen began, raising his 
eyes from the floor, after a moment’s consider- 
ation, “to ask yo yor advice. I need’t over- 
much. I were married on a Eas’r Mondy 
nineteen year sin’, long and dree. She were a 
young lass — pretty enow — wi’ good accounts 
ofhersen’. Well! She went bad — soon. Not 
along of me. Gonnows I were not a unkind 
husband to her.” 

“I have heard all this before,” said Mr. 
Bounderby. “She found other companions, 
took to drinking, left off working, sold the 
furniture, pawned the clothes, and played old 
Gooseberry.” 

“I were patient wi’ her.” 

(“The more fool you, I think,” said Mr. 
Bounderby, in confidence to his wine-glass.) 

“I were very patient wi’ her. I tried to 
wean her fra’t, ower and ower agen. I tried 
this, I tried that, I tried t’oother. I ha’ gone 
home many’s the time, and found all vanished 
as I had in the world, and her without a sense 
left to bless hersen’ lying on bare ground. I 
ha’ dun’t not once, not twice — twenty time I” 

Every line in his face deepened as he said 
it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suf- 
fering he had undergone. 

“From bad to worse, from worse to worse. 
She left me. She disgraced hersen’ every- 
ways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she 
coom back, she coom back. What could 
I do t’ hinder her? I ha’ walked the streets 
nights long, ere ever I’d go home. I ha’ gone 
t’ th’ brigg, minded to fling mysen’ ower, and 
ha’ no more on’t. I ha’ bore that much, that 
I were owd when I were young.’4 

Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her 
netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eye- 
brows and shook her head, as much as to say, 
“ The great know trouble as well as the small. 
Please to turn your humble eye in My direc- 
' tion.” 

“ I ha’ paid her to keep awa’ fra’ me. These 
five year I ha’ paid her. I ha’ gotten decent 
fewtrils about me agen. I ha’ lived hard and 
Bad, but not ashamed and fearfo’ a’ the min- 
nits o’ my life. Last night, I went home. 


There she lay upon my harston I There she 

IS !” 

In the strength of his misfortune, and the 
energy of his distress, he fired for the moment 
like a proud man. In another moment, he 
stood as he had stood all the time — his usual 
stoop upon him ; his pondering face addressed 
to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression 
on it, half-shrewd, half-perplexed, as if his 
mind were set upon unravelling something 
very difficult ; his hat held tight in his left 
hand, which rested on his hip ; his right arm, 
with a rugged propriety and force of action, 
very earnestly emphasising what he said: not 
least so when it always paused, a little bent, 
but not withdrawn, as he paused. 

“I was acquainted with all this, you know,” 
said Mr. Bounderby, “except the last clause, 
long ago. It’s a bad job ; that’s what it is. 
You had better have been satisfied as you 
were, and not have got married. However, 
it’s too late to say that.” 

“Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point 
of years ?” asked Mrs. Sparsit. 

“You hear what this lady asks. Was it an 
unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky 
job of yours?” said Mr. Bounderby. 

“Not e’en so. I was one-and-twenty mysen’; 
she were twenty nighbout.” 

“Indeed, sir?” said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, 
with great placidity. “I inferred, from its be- 
ing so miserable a marriage, that it was proba- 
bly an unequal one in point of years.” 

Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good 
lady in a sidelong way that had an odd sheep- 
ishness about it. He fortified himself with a 
little more sherry. 

“Well! Why don’t you go on?” he then 
asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen 
Blackpool. 

“ I ha’ coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be 
ridden o’ this woman.” Stephen infused a yet 
deeper gravity into the mixed expression of 
his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gen- 
tle ejaculation, as having received a moral 
shock. 

“ What do you mean ?” said Bounderby, 
getting up to lean his back against the chim- 
ney-piece. “ What are you talking about ? 
You took her, for better for worse.” 

“I mun’ be ridden o’ her. I cannot bear’t 
nommore. I ha’ lived under’t so long, for 
that I ha’ had’n the pity and the comforting 
words o’ th’ best lass living or dead. Haply, 
but for her, I should ha’ gone hottering mad.” 

“ He wishes to be free, to marry the female 
of whom he speaks, I fear, sir,” observed Mrs. 
Sparsit in an under-tone, and much dejected 
by the immorality of the people. 

“I do. The lady says what’s right. I do. 
I were a coming to’t. I ha’ read i’ th’ papers 
that great fok (fair faw ’em a’! I wishes ’em 
no hurt!) are not bonded together for better 
for worse so fast, but that they can be set free 
fra’ their misfortnet marriages, and marry 
ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that 
1 their tempers is ill-sorted, they have room -?, - v 


HARD TIMES. 


one kind an’ anotker in their houses, and they 
can live asunders. W e fok ha’ only one room, 
and we can’t. When that won’t do, they ha’ 
gowd and other cash, and they can say, ‘This 
for yo, and that lor me,’ and they can go their 
separate ways. We can’t. Spite o’ all that, 
they can be set free for smaller wrongs than 
is suffered by hundreds an’ hundreds of us — 
by women fur more than men — they can be 
set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I 
mun be ridden o’ this wife o’ mine, and I want 
t’ know how?” 

“No how,” returned Mr. Bounderby. 

“If I do her any hurt, sir, there’s a law to 
punish me?” 

“Of course there is.” 

“If I flee from her, there’s a law to punish 
me?” 

“Of course there is.” 

“If I marry t’oother dear lass, there’s a law 
to punish me!” 

“Of course there is.” 

“If I was to live wi’ her an’ not marry her — 
saying such a thing could be, which it never 
could or would, an’ her so good — there’s a law 
to punish me, in every innocent chilt belong- 
ing to me?” 

“Of course there is.” 

“Now, a’ God’s name,” said Stephen Black- 
pool, “show me the law to help me!” 

“There’s a sanctity in this relation of life,” 
said Mr. Bounderby, “and — and — it must be 
kept up.” 

“No no, dunnot say that, sir. ’Tan’t kep’ up 
that way. Not that way. ’Tis kep’ down that 
way. I’m a weaver, I were in a fact’ry when 
a ciiilt, but I ha’ gotten een to see wi’ and eern 
to hear wi’. I read in th’ papers, every ’Sizes, 
every Sessions — and you read too — I know it ! 
with dismay — how th’ unpossibility o’ ever 
getting unchained from one another, at any 
price, on any terms, brings blood upon this 
land, and brings many common married 
fok (ageu I say, women fur of’ener than 
men ) to battle, murder, and sudden death. 
Let us ha’ this, right understood. Mine’s a 
grievous case, an’ I want — if yo will be so 
good — t’ know the law that helps me.” 

“Now, 1 tell you what!” said Mr. Bounder- 
by, putting his hands in his pockets. “There 
is such a law.” 

Stephen, subsiding into his quiet nTanner,and 
never wandering in his attention, gave a nod. 

“But it’s not for you at all. It costs money. 
It costs a mint of money.” 

How much might that be? Stephen calmly 
asked. 

“Why, you’d have to go to Doctors’ Com- 
mons with a suit, and you’d have to go to a 
court of Common Law with a suit, and you’d 
have to go to the House of Lords with a suit, 
and you’d have to get an Act of Parliament 
to enable you to marry again, and it would 
cost you (it it was a case of very plain-sailing), 
I suppose from a thousand to fifteen hundred 
pound,” said Mr. Bounderby. “Perhaps twice 
the money.” 


109 

“There’s no other law?” 

“Certainly not.” 

“Why then, sir,” said Stephen, turning white, 
and motioning with that right hand of his, as 
if he gave everything to the four winds, a 
muddle. ’Tis just a muddle a’toogether, an’ 
the sooner I am dead, the better.” 

(Mrs. Sparsit again dejected by the impiety 
of the people.) 

“Pooh, pooh! Don’t you talk nonsense, my 
good fellow,” said Mr. Bounderby, “about 
things you don’t understand; and don’t you call 
the Institutions of your country a muddle, or 
you’ll get yourself into a real muddle one of 
these fine mornings. The Institutions of your 
country are not your piecework, and the only 
thing you have got to do, is, to mind your 
piece-work. You didn’t take your wife for fast 
and for loose; but for better for worse. If she 
has turned out worse — why, all we have got to 
say is, she might have turned out better.” 

“ ’Tis a muddle,” said Stephen, shaking his 
head as he moved to the door. “Tis ’a a mud- 
dle!” 

“Now, I’ll tell you what!” Mr. Bounderby 
resumed, as a valedictory address. “ With 
what I shall call your unhallowed opinions, 
you have been quite shocking this lady : who, 
as I have already told you, is a born lady, 
and who, as I have not already told you, has 
had her own marriage misfortunes to the 
tune of tens of thousands of pounds — tens ot 
Thou-sands of Pounds !” (he repeated it with 
great relish.) “Now, you have always been 
a steady Hand hitherto ; but my opinion is, 
and so I tell you plainly, that you are turning 
into the wrong road. You have been listen- 
ing to some mischievous stranger or other — 
they’re always about — and the best thing you 
can do is, to come out of that. Now, you un- 
derstand;” here his countenance expressed 
marvellous acuteness ; “I can see as far into a 
grindstone as another man; farther than a 
good many, perhaps, because I had my nose 
well kept to it when I was young. I see traces 
of the turtle soup, and venison, and gold spoon 
in this. Yes, I do!” cried Mr. Bounderby, 
shaking his head with obstinate cunning. “By 
the Lord Harry, I do !” 

With a very different shake of the head, 
and a deep sigh, Stephen said, “Thank you, 
sir, I wish you good day.” So, he left Mr. 
Bounderby swelling at his own portrait on the 
wall, as if he were going to explode himselt 
into it; and Mrs. Sparsit still ambling on with 
her foot in her stirrup, looking quite cast 
down by the popular vices. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Old Stephen descended the two white steps, 
shutting the black door with the brazen door- 
plate, by the aid of the brazen full-stop, to 
which he gave a parting polish with the sleeve 
of his coat, observing that his hot hand cloud- 
ed it. He crossed the street with his eyes 
bent upon the ground, and thus was walking 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


liO 

sorrowfully away, when he felt a touch upon 
his arm. 

It was not the touch he needed most at such 
a moment — the touch that could calm the 
wild waters of his soul, as the uplifted hand 
of the sublimest love and patience could abate 
the raging of the sea — yet it was a woman’s 
hand too. It was an old woman, tall and 
shapely still, though withered by Time, on 
whom his eyes fell when he stopped and turned. 
She was very cleanly and plainly dressed, 
had country mud upon her shoes, and was 
newly come from a journey. The flutter of 
her manner, in the unwonted noise of the 
streets; the spare shawl, carried unfolded on 
her arm; the heavy umbrella, and little 
basket; the loose long-fingered gloves, to which 
her hands were unused; all bespoke an old 
woman from the country, in her plain holiday 
clothes, come into Coketown on an expedition 
of rare occurrence. Remarking this at a 
glance, with the quick observation of his class, 
Stephen Blackpool bent his attentive face — 
his face, which, like the faces of many of his 
order, by dint of long working with eyes and 
hands in the midst of a prodigious noise, had 
acquired the concentrated look with which we 
are familiar in the countenances of the deaf — 
the better to hear what she asked him. 

“Pray, sir,” said the old woman, “did’nt I 
see you come out of that gentleman’s house ?” 
pointing back to Mr. Bounderby’s. “I believe 
it was you, unless I have had the bad luck to 
mistake the person in following?” 

“Yes, missus,” returned Stephen, “it were 
me.” 

“Have you — you’ll excuse an old woman’s 
curiosity — have you seen the gentleman?” 

“Yes, missus.” 

“And how did he look, sir? Was he 
portly, bold, outspoken, hearty?” As she 
straightened her own figure, and held up 
her head in adapting her action to her words, 
the idea crossed Stephen that he had seen 
this old woman before, and had not quite liked 
her. 

“ 0 yes,” he returned, observing her more 
attentively, “ he were all that.” 

“ And healthy,” said the old woman, “ as 
the fresh wind?” 

“ Yes,” returned Stephen. “He were ett’n 
and drinking — as large and as loud as a Hum- 
mobee.” 

“ Thank you 1” said the old woman with in- 
finite content. “ Thank you I” 

He certainly never had seen this old woman 
before. Yet there was a vague remembrance 
in his mind, as if he had more than once 
dreamed of some old woman like her. 

She walked along at his side, and, gently ac- 
commodating himself to her humor, he said 
Coketown was a busy place, was it not? To 
which she answered, “Eigh sure! Dreadful 
busy!” Then he said, she came from the 
country, he saw? To which she answered in 
the affirmative. 

“By Parliamentary, this morning. I came 


forty mile by Parliamentary this morning, and 
I’m going back the same forty mile this after- 
noon. I walked nine miles to the station this 
morning, and if I find nobody on the road to 
give me a lift, I shall walk the nine mile back 
to night. That’s pretty well, sir, at my age!” 
said the chatty old woman, her eyes brighten- 
ing with exultation. 

“Deed ’tis. Don’t do ’t too often, missus.” 

“No, no. Once a year,” she answered, 
shaking her head. “I spend my savings so, 
once every year. I come, regular, to tramp 
about the streets, and see the gentlemen.” 

“Only to see ’em?” returned Stephen. 

“That’s enough for me,” she replied, with 
great earnestness and interest of manner. “I 
ask no more! I have been standing about, on 
this side of the way, to see that gentleman,” 
turning her head back towards Mr. Bounder- 
by’s again, “come out. But, he’s late this year, 
and I have not seen him. You came out, in- 
stead. Now, if I am obliged to go back without a 
glimpse of him — I only want a glimpse — well! I 
have seen you, and you have seen him, and I 
must make that do.” Saying this, she looked at 
Stephen as if to fix his features in her mind, 
and her eyes were not so bright as they had 
been. 

With a large allowance .for difference of 
tastes, and with all submission to the patricians 
of Coketown, this seemed so extraordinary a 
source of interest to take so much trouble 
about, that it perplexed him. But they were 
passing the church now, and as his eye caught 
the clock, he quickened his pace. ' 

He was going to his work ? the old woman 
said, quickening hers, too, quite easily. Yes, 
time was nearly out. On his telling her where 
he worked, the old woman became a more sin- 
gular old woman than before. 

“Ain’t you happy ?’’ she asked him. 

“Why — there’s — awmost nobbody but has 
their troubles; missus.” He answered eva- 
sively, because the old woman appeared to 
take it for granted, that he would be very hap- 
py indeed, and he had not the heart to disap- 
point her. He knew that there was trouble 
enough in the world; and if the old woman had 
lived so long, and could count upon his having 
so little, why so much the better for her, and 
none the worse for him. 

“Ay, ay ! You have your troubles at home, 
you mean?” she said. 

“Times. Just now and then,” he answered 
slightly. 

“But, working under such a gentleman, they 
don’t follow you to the Factory ?” 

No, no; they didn’t follow him there, said 
Stephen. All correct there. Everything ac- 
cordant there. (He did not go so far as to say, 
for her pleasure, that there was a sort of Divine 
Right there; but, I have heard claims almost as 
magnificent of late years.) 

They were now in the black bye-road near 
the place, and the Hands were crowding in. 
The bell was ringing, and the Serpent was a 
Serpent of many coils, and the Elephant was 


HARD TIMES. 


getting ready. The strange old woman was 
delighted with the very hell. It was the beauti- 
fullest bell she had ever heard, she said, and 
sounded grand ! 

She asked him, when he stopped, good na- 
turedly, to shake hands with her before going 
in, how long he had worked there ? 

A dozen year,” he told her. 

“ I must kiss the hand,” said she, “ that has 
worked in this fine factory for a dozen year I” 
Ajid she lifted it, though he would have pre- 
vented her, and put it to her lips. What har- 
mony, besides her age and her simplicity, sur- 
rounded her, he did not know, but even in this 
fantastic action there was a something neither 
out of time nor place ; a something which it 
seemed as if nobody else could have made as 
serious, or done with such a natural and 
touching air. 

He had been at his loom full half an hour, 
thinking about this old woman, when, having 
occasion to move round the loom for its ad- 
justment, he glanced through a window which 
was in his corner, and saw her still looking up 
at the pile of building, lost in admiration. 
Heedless of the smoke, and mud and wet, and 
of her two long journeys, she was gazing at it, 
as if the heavy thrum thatissued from its many 
stories were proud music to her. 

She was gone by and by, and the day went 
after her, and the lights sprung up again, and 
the Express whirled in full sight of the Fairy 
Palace over the arches near; little felt amid the 
jarring of the machinery, and scarcely heard 
above its crash and rattle. Long before then, 
his thoughts had gone back to the dreary room 
above the little shop, and to the shameful figure 
heavy on the bed, but heavier on his heart. 

Machinery slackened 5 throbbing feebly like 
a fainting pulse ; stopped. The bell again 5 
the glare of light and heat dispelled ; the fac- 
tories, looming heavj in the black wet night *, 
their tall chimneys rising up into the air like 
competing Towers of Babel. 

He had spoken to Rachael only last night, it 
was true, and had walked with her a little way; 
but he had his new misfortune on him, in which 
no one else could give him a moment’s relief, 
and, for the sake of it, and because he knew 
himself to want that softening of his anger 
which no voice but hers could effect, he felt 
he might so far disregard what she had said 
as to wait for her again. He waited, but she 
had eluded him. She was gone. On no other 
night in the year, could he so ill have spared 
her patient face. 

0 ! Better to have no home in which to lay 
his head, than to have a home and dread to 
go to it, through such a cause. He ate and 
drank, for he was exhausted — but, he little 
knew or cared what; and he wandered about 
in the chill rain, thinking and thinking, and 
brooding and brooding. 

No word of a new marriage had ever 
passed between them ; but Rachael had taken 
great pity on him years ago, and to her 
alone he had opened his closed heart all this 


111 

time, on the subject of his miseries ; and he 
knew very well that, if he were free to ask 
her, she would take him. He thought of the 
home he might at that moment have been 
seeking with pleasure and pride ; of the 
different man he might have been that night ; 
of the lightness then in his now heavy-laden 
breast; of the then restored honor, self- 
respect, and tranquillity, now all torn to 
pieces. He thought of the waste of the best 
part of his life, of the change it made in his 
character for the worse every way, of the 
dreadful nature of his existence, bound hand 
and foot to a dead woman, and tormented by 
a demon in her shape. He thought of 
Rachael, how young when they were first 
brought together in these circumstances, how 
mature now, how soon to grow old. He 
thought of the number of girls and women 
she had seen marry, how many homes with 
children in them she had seen grow up 
around her, how she had contentedly pursued 
her own lone quiet path — for him — and how 
he had sometimes seen a shade of melancholy 
on her blessed face, that smote him with re- 
morse and despair. He set the picture of her 
up, beside the infamous image of last night ; 
and thought. Could it be, that the whole 
earthly course of one so gentle, good, and self- 
denying, was subjugate to such a wretch as 
that 1 

Filled with these thoughts — so filled that 
he had an unwholesome sense of growing 
larger, of being placed in some new and dis- 
eased relation towards the objects among which 
he passed, of seeing the iris around every misty 
light turn red — he went home for shelter. 


CHAPTER XIIl. 

A candle faintly burned in the window, to 
which the black ladder had often been raised 
for the sliding away of all that was most pre- 
cious in this world to a striving wife and a 
brood of hungry babies ; and Stephen added 
to his other thoughts the stern reflection, that 
of all the casualties of this existence upon 
earth, not one was dealt out with so unequal 
a hand as Death. The inequality of Birth 
was nothing to it. For, say that the child of 
a King and the child of a Weaver were born 
to-night in the same moment, what was that 
disparity, to the death of any human creature 
who was serviceable to, or beloved by, another, 
while this abandoned woman lived on 1 

From the outside of his home he gloomily 
passed to the inside, with suspended breath 
and with a slow footstep. He went up to his 
door, opened it, and so into the room. 

Quiet and peace were there. Rachael was 
there, sitting by the bed. 

She turned her head, and the light of her 
face shone in upon the midnight of his mind. 
She sat by the bed, watching and tending his 
wife. That is to say, he saw that some one 
lay there, and he knew too well it must be 
she ; but Rachael’s hands had put a curtain 


112 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


up, so that she was screened from his eyes. 
Her disgraceful garments were removed, and 
some of Rachael’s were in the room. Every- 
thing was in its place and order as he had 
always kept it, the little fire was newly 
trimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. 
It appeared to him that he saw all this in Ra- 
chael’s face, and looked at nothing besides. — 
While looking at it, it was shut out from his 
view by the softened tears that filled his eyes; 
but, not before he had seen how earnestly she 
looked at him, and how her own eyes were 
filled too. 

She turned again towards the bed, and satis- 
fying herself that all was quiet there, spoke in 
alow, calm, cheerful voice. 

‘‘I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. 
You are very late.” 

“I ha’ been walking up an’ down.” 

“I thought so. But ’tis too bad a night for 
that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind 
has risen.” 

The wind? True. It was blowing hard. 
Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and 
the surging noise I To have been out in such 
a wind, and not to have known it was blow- 
ing I 

I have been here once before, to-day, Ste- 
phen. Landlady came round for me at dinner- 
time. There was sonae one here that needed 
looking to, she said. And ’deed she was right. 
All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded 
too, and bruised.” 

He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, 
drooping his head before her. 

“ I came to do what little I could, Stephen ; 
first, for that she worked with me when we 
were girls both, and for that you courted her 
and married her when I was her friend — ” 

He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, 
with a low groan. 

And next, for that I know your heart, and 
' am right sure and certain that ’tis far too mer- 
ciful to let her die, or even so much as suffer, 
for want of aid. Thou knowest who said, ‘Let 
him who is without sin among you, cast the 
first stone at her!’ There have been plenty to 
do that. Thou art not the man to cast the last 
stone, Stephen, when she is brought so low.” 

“ 0 Rachael, Rachael I” 

“ Thou hast been a cruel sufferer. Heaven 
reward thee 1” she said, in compassionate ac- 
cents. ‘‘ I am thy poor friend, with all my 
heart and mind.” 

The wounds of which she had spoken, seem- 
ed to be about the neck of the self made out- 
cast. She dressed them now, still without 
showing her. She steeped a piece of linen in 
a basin, into which she poured some liquid 
^ from a bottle, and laid it with a gentle hand 
' upon the sore. The three-legged table had 
been drawn close to the bedside, and on it 
there were two bottles. This was one. 

It was not so far off, but that Stephen, fol- 
lowing her hands with his eyes, could read 
what was printed on it, in large letters. He 


turned of a deadly hue, and a sudden horror 
seemed to fall upon him. 

‘T will stay here, Stephen,” said Rachael, 
quietly resuming her seat, “till the bells go 
Three. ’Tis to be done again at three, and 
then she may be left till morning.” 

“ But thy rest agen to-morrow’s work, my 
dear.” 

“I slept sound, last night. I can wake many 
nights, when I am put to it. ’Tis thou who 
art in need of rest — so white and tired. Try 
to sleep in the chair there, while I watch. 
Thou hadst no sleep last night, I can well be- 
lieve. To-morrow’s work is far harder for thee 
than for me.” 

He heard the thundering and surging out 
of doors, and it seemed to him as if his late 
angry mood were going about trying to get 
at him. She had cast it out ; she would 
keep it out ; he trusted to her to defend him 
from himself. 

“She don’t know me, Stephen; she just 
drowsily mutters and stares. I have spoken 
to her times and again, but she don’t notice I 
’Tis as well so. When she comes to her right 
mind once more, I shall have done what I can, 
and she never the wiser.” 

“How long, Rachael, is’t looked for, that 
she’ll be so ?” 

“ Doctor said she would haply come to her 
mind to-morrow.” 

His eyes again fell on the bottle, and a 
tremble passed over him, causing him to 
shiver in every limb. She thought he was 
chilled with the wet. “No,” he said; “it 
was not that. He had had a firight.” 

“A fright?” 

“ Ay, ay ! coming in. When I were walk- 
ing. When I were thinking. When I — ” It 
seized him again ; and he stood up, holding 
by the mantel-shelf, as he pressed his dank cold 
hair down with a hand that shook as if it were 
palsied. 

“ Stephen I” 

^ She was coming to hiin, but he stretched out 
his arm to stop her. 

“ No 1 Don’t please ; don’t I Let me see 
thee setten by the bed. Let me see thee, a’ so 
good, and so forgiving. Let me see thee as I 
see thee when I coom in. I can never see thee 
better than so. Never, never, never!” 

He had a violent fit of trembling, and then 
sunk into his chair. After a time he con- 
trolled himself, and resting with an elbow 
on one knee, and his head upon that hand, 
could look towards Rachael. Seen across 
the dim candle with his moistened eyes, she 
looked as if she had a glory shining round 
her head. He could have believed she had. 
He did believe it, as the noise without shook 
the window, rattled at the door below, and 
went about the house clamoring and la- 
menting. 

“When she gets better, Stephen, ’tis to be 
hoped she’ll leave thee to thyself again, and 
do thee no more hurt. Anyways we will hope 


HARD 

so now. And now I shall keep silence, for I 
want thee to sleep.” 

He closed his eyes, more to please her than 
to rest his weary head ; but, by slow degrees 
as he listened to the great noise of the wind, 
he ceased to hear it, or it changed into the 
working of his loom, or even into the voices of 
the day (his own included) saying what had 
been really said. Even this imperfect conscious- 
ness faded away at last, and he dreamed a 
long, troubled dream. 

^ He thought that he, and some one on whom 
his heart had long been set — but she was not 
Rachael, and that surprised him, even in the 
midst of his imaginary happiness — stood in 
the church being married. While the cere- 
mony was performing, and while he recog- 
nised among the witnesses some whom he 
knew to be living, and many whom he knew 
to be dead, darkness came on, succeeded by 
the shining of a tremendous light. It broke 
from one line in the table of commandments 
at the altar, and illuminated the building with 
the words. They were sounded through the 
church, too, as if there were voices in the fiery 
letters. Upon this, the whole appearance 
before him and around him changed, and 
nothing was left as it had been, but himself 
and the clergyman. They stood in the day- 
light before a crowd so vast, that if all the 
people in the world could have been brought 
together into one space, they could not have 
looked, he thought, -nore numerous 5 and 
they all abhorred bin., and there was not one 
pitying or friendly tye among the millions 
that were fastened on his face. He stood on 
a raised stage, under his own loom ; and, look- 
ing up at the shape the loom took, and hear- 
ing the burial service distinctly read, he knew 
that he was there to suffer death. In an in- 
stant what he stood on fell below him, and he 
was gone. 

Out of what mystery he came back to his 
usual life, and to places that he knew, he was 
unable to consider; but, he was back in those 
places by some means, and with this condem- 
nation upon him, that he was never, in this 
world or the next, through all the unimaginable 
ages of eternity, to look on Rachael’s face or 
hear her voice. Wandering to and fro, un- 
ceasingly, without hope, and in search of he 
knew not what (he only knew that he was 
doomed to seek it), he was the subject of 'a 
nameless, horrible dread, a mortal fear of 
one particular shape which everything took. 
Whatsoever he looked at, grew into that form 
sooner or later. The object of his miserable 
existence was to prevent its recognition by 
any one among the various people he encoun- 
tered. Hopeless laborl If he led them out of 
rooms where it was, if he shut up drawers and 
closets where it stood, if he drew the curious 
from places where he knew it to be secreted, 
and got them out into the streets, the very chim- 
neys of the mills assumed that shape, and round 
them was the printed word. 

The wind was blowing again, the rain was 


TIMES. 113 

beating on the housetops, and the larger 
spaces through which he had strayed con- 
tracted to the tour walls of his room. Saving 
that the fire had died out, it was as his eyes 
had closed upon it. Rachael seemed to have 
fallen into a doze, in the chair by the bed. 
She sat wrapped in her shawl, perfectly still. 
The table stood in the same place, close by 
the bedside, and on it, in its real proportions 
and appearance, was the shape so often re- 
peated. 

He thought he saw the curtain move. He 
looked again, and he was sure it moved. He 
saw a hand come forth, and grope about a 
little. Then the curtain moved more per- 
ceptibly, and the woman in the bed put it 
back, and sat up. 

With her woful eyes, so haggard and wild, so 
heavy and large, she looked all round the 
room, and passed the corner where he slept in 
his chair. Her eyes returned to that corner, 
and she put her hand over them as a shade, 
while she looked into it. Again they went 
all around the room, scarcely heeding Rachael 
if at all, and returned to that corner. He 
thought, as she once more shaded them — not 
so much looking at him, as looking for him 
with a brutish instinct that he was there — that 
no single trace was left in those debauched 
features, or in the mind that went along with 
them, of the woman he had married eighteen 
years before. But that he had seen her come 
to this by inches, he never could have believed 
her to be the same. 

All this time, as if a spell were on him, he 
was motionless and powerless, except to watch 
her. 

Stupidly dozing, or communing with her 
incapable self about nothing, she sat for a little 
while with her hands at her ears, and her head 
resting on them. Presently, she resumed her 
staring round the room. And now, for the 
first time her eyes stopped at the table with the 
bottles on it. 

Straightway she turned her eyes back to his 
corner, with the defiance of last night, and, 
moving very cautiously and softly, stretched 
out her greedy hand. She drew a mug into 
the bed, and sat for awhile considering which 
of the two bottles she should choose. Finally 
she laid her insensate grasp upon the botth 
that had swift and certain death in it, and b» 
fore his eyes, pulled out the cork with her teeti 

Dream or reality, he had no voice, nor hau 
he power to stir. If this be real, and her 
allotted time be not yet come, wake, Rachael, 
wake I 

She thought of that, too. She looked at 
Rachael, and very slowly, very cautiously, 
poured out the contents. The draught was at 
her lips. A moment and she would be past 
all help, let the whole world wake and coine 
about her with its utmost power. But, in 
that moment Rachael started up with a sup- 
pressed cry. The creature struggled, struck 
her, seized her by the hair; but Rachael had 
the cup. 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


114 

Stephen broke out of his chair. ‘‘Rachael, 
am I wakin’ or dreamin’ this dreadfo’ night!” 

“Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep 
myself. ’Tis near three. Hush! I hear the 
bells.” 

The wind brought the sounds of the church 
clock to the window. They listened, and it 
struck three. Stephen looked at her, saw how 
pale she was, noted the disorder of her hair, 
and the red marks of fingers on her forehead, 
and felt assured that his senses of sight and 
hearing had been awaked. She held the cup 
in her hand even now. 

“I thought it must be near three,” she 
said, calmly pouring from the cup into the 
basin, and steeping the linen as before. “I 
am thankful I stayed! ’Tis done now, when I 
have put this on. There! And now she’s 
quiet again. The few drops in the basin I’ll 
pour away, for ’tis bad stuff to leave about, 
though ever so little of it.” As she spoke, she 
drained the basin into the ashes of the fire, and 
broke the bottle on the hearth. 

She had nothing to do, then, but to cover 
herself with her shawl before going out into the 
wind and rain. 

“Thou'lt let me walk wi’ thee at this hour, 
Rachael?” 

“No, Stephen. ’Tis but a minute and I’m 
home.” * 

“Thou’rt not fearfo’ ; ” he said it in a low 
voice, as they went out at the door; “to leave 
me alone wi’ her ! ” 

As she looked at him, saying “Stephen ? ” 
he went down on his knee before her, on the 
poor mean stairs, and put an end of her shawl 
to his lips. 

“Thou art an Angel. Bless thee, bless 
thee !” 

“I am, as I have told thee, Stephen, thy poor 
friend. Angels are not like me. Between 
them, and a working woman fu’ of faults, there 
is a deep gulf set. My little sister is among 
them, but she is changed.” 

She raised her eyes for a moment as she said 
the words; and then they fell again, in all their 
gentleness and mildness, on his face. 

“Thou changes! me from bad to good. Thou 
mak’st me humbly wishfo’ to be more like thee, 
and fearfo’ to lose thee when this life is ower, 
an’ a’ the muddle cleared awa’. Thou’rt an 
Angel; it may be, thou hast saved my soul 
alive!” 

She looked at him, on his knee at her feet, 
with her shawl still in his hand, and the reproof 
on her lips died away when she saw the work- 
ing of his face. 

“I coom home desp’rate. I coom home 
wi’out a hope, and mad wi’ thinking that when 
I said a word o’ complaint, I was reckoned a 
cnreasonable Hand. I told thee I had had a 
fright. It were the Poison-bottle on table. I 
never hurt a livin’ creetur; but, happenin’ so 
suddenly upon’t, I thowt, ‘How can I say 
what I might ,ha’ done to mysen, or her, or 
bothl’” 

She put her two hands on his mouth, with 


a face of terror, to stop him from saying 
more. He caught them in his unoccupied 
hand, and holding them, and still clasping the 
border of her shawl, said, hurriedly: 

“But I see thee, Rachael, setteu by the bed. 
I ha’ seen thee a’ this night. In my troublous 
sleep I ha’ known thee still to be there. Ever- 
more I will see thee there. I nevermore will 
see her or think o’ her, but thou shalt be be- 
side her. I nevermore will see or think o’ any- 
thing that angers me, but thou, so much better 
than me, shalt be by th’ side on’t. And so I 
will try t’ look t’ th’ time, and so I will try t’ 
trust t’ th’ time, when thou and me at last 
shall walk together far awa’, beyond the deep 
gulfj in th’ country where thy little sister is.” 

He kissed the border of her shawl again, 
and let her go. She bade him good night in 
a broken voice, and went out into the street. 

The wind blew from the quarter where the 
day would soon appear, and still blew strongly. 
It had cleared the sky before it, and the rain 
had spent itself or travelled elsewhere, and the 
stars were bright. He stood bare-headed in 
the road, watching her quick disappearance. 
As the shining stars were to the heavy candle 
in the window, so was Rachael, in the rugged 
fancy of this man, to the common experiences 
of his life. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Time went on in Coketown like its own 
machinery : so much material wrought up, 
so much fuel consumed, so many powers worn 
out, so much money made. But, less inexor- 
able than iron, steel, and brass, it brought its 
varying seasons even into that wilderness of 
smoke and brick, and made the only stand that 
ever was made in the place against its direful 
uniformity. 

“Louisa is becoming,” said Mr. Gradgrind, 
“almost a young woman.” 

Time, with his innumerable horse-power, 
worked away, not minding what anybody 
said, and presently turned out young Thomas 
a foot taller than when his father had last taken 
particular notice of him. 

“ Thomas is becoming,” said Mr. Gradgrind, 
“almost a young man.” 

Time passed Thomas on in the mill, while 
his father was thinking about it, and there 
he stood in a long tail-coat and a stiff shirt- 
collar. 

“Really,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “the period 
has arrived when Thomas ought to go lo 
Bounderby.” 

Time, sticking to him, passed him on into 
Bounderby’s Bank, made him an inmate of 
Bounderby’s house, necessitated the purchase 
of his first razor, and exercised him diligently 
in his calculations relative to number one. 

The same great manufacturer, always with 
an immense variety of work on hand, in every 
stage of development, passed Sissy onward in 
his mill, and worked her up into a very pretty 
article indeed. 


115 


HARD TIMES. 


fear, Jupe said Mr. Gradgrind, “that 
your continuance at the school any longer, 
would be useless.” 

“I am afraid it would, sir,” Sissy answered 
with a curtsey. 

“I cannot disguise from you, Jupe,” said 
Mr. Gradgrind, knitting his brow, “that 
the result of your probation there has 
disappointed me ; has greatly disappointed 
me. You have not acquired, under Mr. 
and Mrs. M‘ChoakumchiId, anything like 
that amount of exact knowledge which 
I looked for. You are extremely deficient 
in your facts. Your acquaintance with figures 
is very limited. You are altogether backward, 
and below the mark.” 

“I am sorry, sir,” she returned; “but I know 
it is quite true. Yet I have tried hard, sir.” 
“Yes,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “y^s, I believe 
ou have tried hard ; I have observed you, and 
can find no fault in that respect.” 

“Thank you, sir. I have thought some- 
times ;” Sissy very timid here ; “that perhaps 
I tried to learn too much, and that if I had 
asked to be allowed to try a little less, I might 
have—” 

“No, Jupe, no,” said Mr. Gradgrind, shak- 
ing bis head in his profoundest and most emi- 
nently practical way. “No. The course you 
pursued, you pursued according to the system 
— the system — and there is no more to 
be said about it. I can only suppose that the 
circumstances of your early life were too un- 
favorable to the development of your reasoning 
owers, and that we began too late. Still, as 
have said already, I am disappointed.” 

“ I wish I could have made a better ac- 
knowledgment, sir, of your kindness to a poor 
forlorn girl who had no claim upon you, and of 
your protection of her.” 

“Don’t shed tears,” said Mr. Gradgrind. — 
“Don’t shed tears. I don’t complain of you. 
You are an affectionate, earnest, good young 
woman, and — and we must make that do.” 

“Thank you, sir, very much,” said Sissy, 
with a grateful curtsey. 

“You are useful to Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in 
a generally pervading way) you are serviceable 
in the family also; so I understand from Miss 
Louisa, and, indeed, so I have observed myself. 
I therefore hope,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “that 
you can make yourself happy in those rela- 
tions.” 

“I should have nothing to wish, sir, if — ” 

“I understand you,” said Mr. Gradgrind; 
“you still refer to your father. I have heard 
from Miss Louisa that you still preserve that 
bottle. Well 1 If your training in the science 
of arriving at exact results had been more 
successful, you would have been wiser on these 
points. I will say no more.” 

He really liked Sissy too well to have a 
contempt for herj otherwise he held her 
calculating powers in such very slight estima- 
tion, that he must have fallen upon that 
conclusion. Somehow or other, he had be- 
come possessed by an idea that there was some- 


thing in this girl which could hardly be set 
forth in a tabular form. Her capacity of defi- 
nition might be easily stated at a very low 
figure, her mathematical knowledge at nothing ; 
yet he was not sure that if he had been re- 
quired, for example, to tick her off into columns 
in a parliamentary return, he would have quite 
known how to divide her. 

In some stages of his manufacture of the 
human fabric, the processes of Time are very 
rapid. Young Thomas and Sissy being both 
at such a stage of their working up, these 
changes were effected in a year or two ; while 
Mr. Gradgrind himself seemed stationary in 
his course, and underwent no alteration. 

Except one, which was apart from his ne- 
cessary progress through the mill. Time 
hustled him into a little noisy and rather dirty 
machinery, in a bye corner, and made him 
Member of Parliament for Coketown: one of 
the respected members for ounce weights and 
measures, one of the representatives of the 
multiplication table, one of the deaf honorable 
gentlemen, dumb honorable gentlemen, blind 
honorable gentlemen, lame honorable gentle- 
men, dead honorable gentlemen, to every other 
consideration. Else wherefore live we in a 
Christian land, eighteen hundred and odd years 
after our Master ? 

All this while, Louisa had been passing on, 
so quiet and reserved, and so much given to 
watching the bright ashes at twilight as they 
fell into the grate and became extinct, that 
from the period when her father had said she 
was almost a young woman — which seemed 
but yesterday — she had scarcely attracted his 
notice again, when he found her quite a young 
woman. 

“Quite a young woman,” said Mr. Grad- 
grind, musing. “Dear me 1” 

Soon after this discovery, he became more 
thoughtful than usual for several days, and 
seemed much engrossed by one subject. On 
a certain night, when he was going out, and 
Louisa came to bid him good bye before his 
departure — as he was not to be home until 
late, and she would not see him again until 
the morning — he held her in his arms, looking 
at her in his kindest manner, and said : 

“My dear Louisa, you are a woman.” 

She answered with the old, quick, searching 
look of the night when she was found at the 
Circus; then cast down her eyes. “Yes, 
father.” 

“My dear,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “I must 
speak with you alone and seriously. Come to 
me in my room after breakfast to-morrow, 
will you ?” 

“Yes, father.” 

“Your hands are rather cold, Louisa. Are 
you not well ?” 

“Quite well, father.” 

“And cheerful ?” 

She looked at him again, and smiled in her 
peculiar manner. “1 am as cheerful, father, 
as I usually am, or usually have been.” 

“ That’s well,” said Mr. Gradgrind. So, ha 


116 


DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 


kissed her and went away; and* Louisa re- 
turned to the serene apartment of the hair- cut- 
ting character, and leaning her elbow on her 
hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks 
that so soon subsided into ashes. 

Are you there. Loo ?” said her brother, 
looking in at the door. He was quite a young 
gentleman of pleasure now, and not quite a 
prepossessing one. 

“ Dear Tom,” she answered, rising and em- 
bracing him, “ how long it is since you have 
been to see me 1” 

^‘Why, I have been otherwise engaged. Loo, 
in the evenings; and in the daytime old Boun- 
derby has been keeping me at it rather. But 
I touch him up with you, when he comes it too 
strong; and so we preserve an understanding. 
I sayl Has father said anything particular to 
you, to-day or yesterday. Loo?” 

“No, Tom. But he told me to-night that he 
wished to do so in the morning.” 

“Ah 1 That’s what I mean,” said Tom. 
“Do you know where he is to-night ?” — with a 
very deep expression. 

“No.” 

“Then I’ll tell you. He’s with old Bounder- 
by. They are having a regular confab toge- 
ther, up at the Bank. Why at the Bank, do 
you think? Well, I’ll tell you again. To 
keep Mrs. Sparsit’s ears as far off as possible, 
I expect.” 

With her hand upon her brother’s shoulder, 
Louisa still stood looking at the fire. Her 
brother glanced at her face with greater inter- 
est than usual, and encircling her waist with 
his arm, drew her coaxingly to him. 

“You are very fond of me, an’t you. Loo?” 

“ Indeed I am, Tom, though you do let 
such long intervals go by without coming to 
see me.” 

“Well, sister of mine,” said Tom, “when 
you say that, you are near my thoughts. We 
might be so much oftener together — mightn’t 
we ? Always together, almost — mightn’t we ? 
It would do me a great deal of good if you were 
to make up your mind to I know what. Loo. 
It would be a splendid thing for me. It would 
be uncommonly jolly !” 

Her thoughtfulness baffled his cunning 
scrutiny. He could make nothing of her face. 
He pressed her in his arm, and kissed her 
cheek. She returned the kiss, but still looked 
at the fire. 

^ “I say. Loo I I thought I’d come and just 
hint to you what was going on : though I sup- 
osed you’d most likely guess, even if you 
idn’t know. I can’t stay, because I’m engaged 
to some fellows to-night. You won’t forget 
how fond you are of me ?” 

“No, dear Tom, I won’t forget.” 

“That’s a capital girl,” said Tom. “Good 
bye. Loo.” 

She gave him an affectionate good night, 
and went out with him to the door, whence 
the fires of Coketown could be seen, making 
the distance lurid. She stood there, looking 
steadfastly towards them, and listening to his 


departing steps. They retreated quickly, as 
glad to get away from Stone Lodge ; and she 
stood there yet, when he was gone and all was 
quiet. It seemed as if, first in her own fire 
within the house, and then in the fiery haze 
without, she tried to discover what kind of woot 
Old Time, that greatest and longest-established 
Spinner of all, would weave from the threads 
he had already spun into a woman. But, his 
factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, 
and his Hands are mutes. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Although Mr. Gradgrind did not take after 
Blue Beard, his room was quite a Blue chamber 
in its abundance of blue books. Whatever 
they could prove (which is usually anything 
you like), they proved there, in an army con- 
stantly strengthening by the arrival of new re- 
cruits. In that charmed apartment, the most 
complicated social questions were cast up, got 
into exact totals, and finally settled — if those 
concerned could only have been brought to- 
know it. As if an astronomical obser- 
vatory should be made without any win- 
dows, and the astronomer within should 
arrange the starry universe solely by pen, 
ink and paper, so Mr. Gradgrind, in Jiis 
Observatory (and there are many like it), had 
no need to cast an eye upon the teeming my- 
riads of human beinps around him, but could 
settle all their destinies on a slate, and wipe 
out all their tears with one dirty little bit of 
sponge. 

To this Observatory, then : a stem room 
with a deadly-statistical clock in it, which 
measured every second with a beat like a rap 
upon a coffin-lid : Louisa repaired on the 
appointed morning. The window looked to- 
wards Coketown ; and when she sat down near 
her father’s table, she saw the high chimneys 
and the long tracks of smoke looming in the 
heavy distance gloomily. 

“My dear Louisa,” said her father, “I pre- 
pared you last night to give me your serious 
attention in the conversation we are now goin^ 
to have together. You have been so well 
trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so 
much justice to the education you have re- 
ceived, that I have perfect confidence in your 
good sense. You are not impulsive, you are 
not romantic, you are accustomed to view 
everything from the strong dispassionate 
ground of reason and calculation. From that 
ground alone, I know you will view and con- 
sider what I am going to communicate.” 

He waited, as if he would have been glad 
that she said something. But she said never 
a word. 

“Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a 
proposal of marriage that has been made to 
me.” 

Again he waited, and again she answered 
not one word. This so far surprised him, as 
to induce him gently to repeat, “ a proposal of 


HARD 

marriage, my dear.” To whicli, she returned 
without any visible emotion whatever : 

“I hear you, father. I am attending, I 
assure you.” 

‘‘Weill” said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking 
into a smile, after being for the moment at a 
loss, “ you are even more dispassionate than 
I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps you are not 
unprepared for the announcement I have it in 
charge to make ? ” 

“ I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. 
Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all 
from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, 
father.” 

Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so 
collected at this moment as his daughter was. 
He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it 
over, laid it down, took it up again, and even 
then had to look along the blade of it, consider- 
ing how to go on. 

“What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly 
reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you 
.you know that that Mr. Bounderby has in- 

formed me that he has long watched your pro- 
gress with particular interest and pleasure, and 
has long hoped that the time might ultimately 
arrive when he should offer you his hand in 
marriage. That time, to which she has so long, 
and certainly with great constancy, looked for- 
ward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made 
his proposal of marriage to me, and has en- 
treated me to make it known to you, and to 
express his hope that you will take it into your 
favorable consideration.” 

Silence between them. The deadly-sta- 
tistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke 
very black and heavy. 

“Father,” said Louisa, “do you think I love 
Mr. Bounderby?” 

Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited 
by this unexpected question. “Well, my 
child,” he returned, “I — really — cannot take 
upon myself to say.” 

“Father,” pursued Louisa, in exactly the 
same voice as before, “do you ask me to love 
Mr. Bounderby?” 

“My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing.” 

“ Father,” she , still pursued, “ does Mr. 
Bounderby ask me to love him ?” 

“ Really, my dear,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ it 
is difficult to answer your question — ” 

“Difficult to answer it. Yes or No, father?” 

“ Certainly, my dear. Because ;” here was 
something to demonstrate, and it set him up 
again ; “ because the reply depends so mate- 
rially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use 
the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does 
not do you the injustice, and does not do 
himself the injustice, of pretending to any- 
thing fanciful, fantastic, or (I am usine: 
synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bound- 
erby would have seen you grow up under 
his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so 
far forget what is due to your good sense, not 
to say to his, as to address you from any such 
ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression 


TIMES. 117 

itself— I merely suggest this to you, my dear — 
may be a little misplaced.” 

“ What would you advise me to use in its 
stead, father? ” 

“ Why, my dear Louisa,” said Mr. Grad- 
grind, completely recovered by this time, “ I 
would advise you (since you ask me) to 
consider this question, as you have been 
accustomed to consider every other question, 
simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant 
and the giddy may embarrass such subjects 
with irrelevant fancies, and other absur- 
dities that have no existence, properly 
viewed — really no existence — but it is no 
compliment to you to say, that you know better. 
Now, what are the Facts of this case ? You 
are, we will say in round numbers, twenty 
years of age ; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in 
round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity 
in your respective years, but in your means and 
positions there is none ; on the contrary, there 
is a great suitability. Then the question arises, 
Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a 
bar to such a marriage ? In considering this 
question, it is not unimportant to take into 
account the statistics of marriage, so far as 
they have yet been obtained, in England and 
Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that 
a large proportion of these marriages are con- 
tracted between parties of very unequal ages, 
and that the elder of these contracting parties 
is, in rather more than three-fourths of these 
instances, the bridegroom. It is remarkable, 
as showing the wide prevalence of this law, 
that among the natives of the British posses- 
sions in India, also in a considerable part of 
China, and among the Calmucks of Tartary, 
the best means of computation yet furnished 
us by travellers, yield similar results. The 
disparity I have mentioned, therefore, almost 
ceases to be disparity, and (virtually) all but 
disappears.” 

“What do you recommend, father,” asked 
Louisa, her reserved composure not in the 
least affected by these gratifying results, 
“that I should substitute for the term I used 
just now? For the misplaced expression?” 

“Louisa,” returned her father, “it appears 
to me that nothing can be plainer. Confining 
yourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact 
you state to yourself is : Does Mr. Bounderby 
ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The 
sole remaining question then is : Shall I marry 
him? I think nothing can be plainer than 
that.” 

“Shall I marry him ?” repeated Louisa, with 
great deliberation. 

“ Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as 
your father, my dear Louisa, to know that you 
do not come to the consideration of that 
question with the previous habits of mind, and 
habits of life, that belong to many young 
women.” 

“ No, father;” she returned, “ I do not.” 

“ I now leave you to judge for yourself,’’ said 
Mr. Gradgrind. “ I have stated the case, as 
such cases are usually stated among practical 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


118 

minds ; I have stated it, as the case of your 
mother and myself was stated in its time. 
The rest, my dear Louisa, is for you to 
decide.” 

From the beginning, she had sat looking at 
nim fixedly. As he now leaned back in his 
chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in 
his turn, perhaps he might have seen one 
wavering moment in her, when she was im- 
pelled to throw herself upon his breast, and 
give him the pent-up confidences of her heart. 
But, to see it, he must have overleaped at a 
bound the artificial barriers he had for many 
years been erecting, between himself and all 
those subtle essences of humanity which will 
elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the 
last trumpet ever to be sounded shall blow 
even algebra to wreck. The barriers were too 
many and too high for such a leap. He did 
not see it. With his unbending:, utilitarian, 
matter-of-fact face, he hardened her again ; 
and the moment shot away into the plumb- 
less depth of the past, to mingle with all the 
lost opportunities that are drowned there. 

. Removing her eyes from him, she sat so 
long looking silently towards the town, that he 
said, at length : “Are you consulting the 
chimneys of the Coketown works, Louisa ?” 

“ There seems to be nothing there, but 
languid and monotonous smoke. Yet when 
the night comes. Fire bursts out, fatherl” she 
answered, turning quickly. 

“Of course I know that, Louisa. I do not 
see the application of the remark.” To do 
him justice he did not, at all. 

She passed it away with a slight motion of 
her hand, and concentrating her attention upon 
him again, said, “Father, I have often thought 
that life is very short” This was so dis- 

tinctly one of his subjects that he interposed: 

“It is short, no doubt, my dear. Still, the 
average duration of human life is proved to 
have increased of late years. The calculations 
of various' life assurance and annuity offices, 
among other figures whir h cannot go wrong, 
have established the fact.” 

“I speak of my own life, father.” 

“0 indeed? Still,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “I 
need not point out to you, Louisa, that it is 
governed by the laws which govern lives in the 
aggregate.” 

“While it lasts. I would wish to do the little 
I can, and the little I am fit for. What does it 
matter 1” 

Mr. Gradgrind seemed rather at a loss to 
understand the last four words ; replying, 
*‘How, matter ? What, matter, my dear ?” 

“Mr. Bounderby,” she went on in a steady, 
straight way, without regarding this, “asks me 
to marry him. The question I have to ask 
myself is, shall I marry him ? That is so, 
father, is it not ? You have told me so, father. 
Have you not?” 

“Certainly, my dear.” 

“Let it be so. Since Mr. Bounderby likes 
to take me thus, I am satisfied to accept his 
proposal. Tell him, father, as soon as you 


please, that this was my answer. Repeat it> 
word for word, if you can, because I should 
wish him to know what I said.” 

“It is quite right, my dear,” retorted her 
father approvingly, “to be exact. I will ob- 
serve your very proper request. Have you any 
wish, in reference to the period of your mar- 
riage, my child ?” 

“None, father. What does it matter 1” 

Mr. Gradgrind had drawn his chair a little 
nearer to her, and taken her hand. But, her 
repetition of these words seemed to strike with*" 
some little discord on his ear. He paused 
to look at her, and, still holding her hand, 
said ; 

“Louisa, I have not considered it essential 
to ask you one question, because the possibility 
implied in it appeared to me to be too remote. 
But, perhaps I ought to do so. You have 
never entertained in secret any other proposal?” 

“Fattier,” she returned, almost scornfully, 
“what other proposal can have been made to 
me? Whom have I seen? Where have I 
been? What are my heart’s experiences?” 

“My dear Louisa,” returned Mr. Gradgrind, 
re-assured and satisfied, “you correct me justly. 
I merely wished to discharge my duty.” 

“What do I know, father,” said Louisa in 
her quiet manner, “of tastes and fancies; of 
aspirations and affections; of all that part of 
my nature in which such light things might 
have been nourished? What escape have I 
had from problems that could be demonstrated, 
and realities that could be grasped?” As she 
said it, she unconsciously closed her hand, as 
if upon a solid object, and slowly opened it as 
though she were releasing dust or ash. 

“My dear,” assented her eminently practical 
parent, “quite true, quite true.” 

“Why, father,” she pursued, “what a 
strange question to ask me! The baby- 
preference that even I have heard of as com- 
mon among children, has never had its innocent 
resting-place in my breast. You have been 
so careful of me, that I never had a child’s 
heart. You have trained me so well that I 
never dreamed a child’s dream. You have 
dealt so wisely with me, father, from my cradle 
to this hour, that I never had a child’s belief 
or a child’s fear.” 

Mr. Gradgrind was quite moved by his suc- 
cess, and by this testimony to it. “My dear 
Louisa,” said he, “you abundantly repay my 
care. Kiss me, my dear girl.” 

So, his daughter kissed him. Detaining 
her in his embrace, he said, “I may assure 
you now, my favorite child, that I am made 
happy by the sound decision at which you 
have arrived. Mr. Bounderby is a very re- 
markable man; and what little disparity can be 
said to exist between you — if any — is more 
than counterbalanced by the tone your mind 
has acquired. It has always been my object 
so to educate you, as that you might, while still 
in your early youth, be (if I may so express 
myself) almost any age. Kiss me once more, 
Louisa. Now, let us go and find your mother.” 


HARD TIMES. 


Accordingly, they went down to the draw- 
ing-room, where the esteemed, lady with no 
nonsense about her was recumbent as usual, 
while Sissy worked beside her. She gave some 
feeble signs of returning animation when they 
entered, and presently the faint transparency 
was presented in a sitting attitude. 

“Mrs. Gradgrind,” said her husband, who 
had waited, for the achievement of this feat 
with some impatience, “allow me to present 
to vou Mrs. Bounderby.” 

‘Oh!” said Mrs. Gradgrind, “so you have 
settled it ! W ell, I am sure I hope your health 
may be good, Louisa; for if your head begins 
to split as soon as you are married, which was 
the case with mine, I cannot consider that you 
are to be envied, though I have no doubt j'ou 
think you are, as all girls do. However, I give 
you joy, my dear — and hope you may now turn 
all your ological studies to good account, I am 
sure I do 1 I must give you a kiss of congratu- 
lation, Louisa; but don’t touch my right 
shoulder, for there’s something running down 
it all day long. And now you see,” whimpered 
Mrs. Gradgrind, adjusting her shawls after the 
affectionate ceremony, “I shall be worrying 
myself, morning, noon, and night, to know 
what I am to call him!” 

“Mrs. Gradgrind,” said her husband, solemn- 
ly, “what do you mean ?” 

“Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Grad- 
grind, when he is married to Louisa ! I 
must call him something. It’s impossible,” 
said Mrs. Gradgrind, with a mingled sense of 
politeness and injury, “to be constantly ad- 
dressing him, and never giving him a name. 
I cannot call him Josiah, for the name is in- 
supportable to me. You yourself wouldn’t 
hear of Joe, you very well know. Am I to 
call my own son-in-law. Mister? Not, I be- 
lieve, unless the time has arrived when, as an 
invalid, I am to be trampled upon by my* rela- 
tions. Then, what am I to call him ?” 

Nobody present having any suggestion to 
offer in the remarkable emergency, Mrs. Grad- 
grind departed this life for the time being, after 
delivering the following codicil to her remarks 
already executed : 

“As to the wedding, all I ask, Louisa, is, — 
and I ask it with a fluttering in my chest, 
which actually extends to the soles of my feet, 
— that it may take place soon. Otherwise, I 
know it is one of those subjects I shall never 
hear the last of.” 

When Mr. Gradgrind had presented Mrs. 
Bounderby, Sissy had suddenly turned her 
head, and looked, in wonder, in pity, in sorrow 
in doubt, in a multitude of emotions, towards 
Louisa. Louisa had known it, and seen it, with- 
out looking at her. From that moment she 
was impassive, proud, and cold — held Sissy at 
a distance — changed to her altogether. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Mr. Bounderby’s first disquietude, on hear- 
ing of his happiness, was occasioned by the 


119 

necessity of imparting it to Mrs. Sparsit. 
He could not make up his mind how to do 
that, or what the consequences of the step 
might be. Whether she would instantly depart, 
bag and baggage, to Lady Scadgers, or would 
positively refuse to budge from the premises; 
whether she would be plaintive or abusive, 
tearful or tearing ; whether she would break 
her heart, or break the looking-glass ; Mr. 
Bounderby could not at all foresee. However, 
as it must be done, he had no choice but to 
do it ; so, after attempting several letters, and 
failing in them all, he resolved to do it by word 
of mouth. 

On his way home, on the evening he set 
aside for this momentous purpose, he took the 
precaution of stepping into a chemist’s shop and 
buying a bottle of the very strongest smelling- 
salts. “By George !” said Mr. Bounderby, “if 
she takes it in the fainting way, I’ll have the 
skin off her nose, at all events!” But, in spite 
of being thus forearmed, he entered his own 
house with anything but a courageous 
air ; and appeared, before the object of his 
misgivings, like a dog who was conscious of 
coming direct from the pantry. 

“Good evening, Mr. Bounderby !” 

“Good evening, ma’am, good evening.” 
He drew up his chair, and Mrs. Sparsit drew 
back hers, as who should say, “Your fireside, 
sir. I freely admit it. It is for you to occupy 
it all, if you think proper.” 

“Don’t go to the North Pole, ma’am!” said 
Mr. Bounderby. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, and re- 
turned, though short of her former position. 

Mr. Bounderby gat looking at her, as, with 
the points of a stiff sharp pair of scissors, she 
picked out holes for some inscrutable orna- 
mental purpose, in a piece of cambric. An 
operation which, taken in connexion with the 
bushy eyebrows and the Roman nose, suggested 
with some liveliness the idea of a hawk en- 
gaged upon the eyes of a tough little bird. 
She was so steadfastly occupied, that many 
minutes elapsed before she looked up from 
her work; when she did so, Mr. Bounderby be- 
spoke her attention with a hitch of his head. 

“Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
putting his hands in his pockets, and assuring 
himself with his right hand that the cork of 
the little bottle was ready for use, “I have no 
occasion to say to you, that you are not only a 
lady born and bred, but a devilish sensible 
woman.” 

“Sir,” returned the lady, “this is indeed not 
the first time that you have honored me with 
similar expressions of your good opinion.” 

“Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
“I am going to astonish you.” 

“Yes, sir?” returned Mrs. Sparsit, interro- 
gatively, and in the most tranquil manner po, 
sible. She generally wore mittens, and shv 
now laid down her work and smoothed those 
mittens. 

“I am going, ma’am,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
“to marry Tom Gradgrind’s daughter.” 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


120 

*‘Yes, sir?” returned Mrs. Sparsit. “I hope 
you may be happy, Mr. Bounderby. Oh, in- 
deed I hope you may be happy, sir!” And 
she said it with such great condescension, as 
well as with such great compassion for him, 
that Bounderby, far more disconcerted than if 
she had thrown her work-box at the mirror, or 
swooned on the hearth-rug, — corked up the 
smelling-salts tight in his pocket, and thought, 
‘^Now con-found this woman, who could have 
ever guessed that she would take it in this 
way !” 

“I wish with all my heart, sir,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, in a highly superior manner; somehow 
she seemed, in a moment, to have established 
a right to pity him ever afterwards ; “that you 
may be in all respects very happy.” 

“Well, ma’am,” returned Bounderby, with 
some resentment in his tone : which was 
clearly lowered, though in spite of himself, 
“I am obliged to you. I hope I shall be.” 

“Do you, sir?” said Mrs. Sparsit, with great 
affability. “But naturally you do ; of course 
you do.” 

A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounderby’s 
art succeeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedately resumed 
er work, and occasionally gave a small cough, 
which sounded like the cough of conscious 
strength and forbearance 

“Well, ma’am,” resumed Bounderby, “under 
these circumstances, I imagine it would not be 
agreeable to a character like yours to remain 
here, though you would be very welcome here?” 

“6h dear no, sir, I could on no account 
think of that 1” Mrs. Sparsit shook her 
head, still in her highly superior manner, and 
a little changed the small cough — coughing 
now, as if the spirit of prophecy rose within 
her, but had better be coughed down. 

“ However, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “there 
are apartments at the Bank, where a born and 
bred lady, as keeper of the place, would be 
rather a catch than otherwise ; and if the same 
terms — ” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir. You were so good 
as to promise that you would always substitute 
the phrase, annual compliment.” 

“ Well, ma’am, annual compliment. If the 
same annual compliment would be acceptable 
there, why, I see nothing to part us unless you 
do.” 

“Sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit. “The proposal 
is like yourself, and if the position I should 
assume at the Bank is one that I could occupy 
without descending lower in the social scale 

“Why, of course it is,” said Bounderby. “If 
it was not, ma’am, you don’t suppose that I 
should offer it to a lady who has moved in the 
society you have moved in. Not that I care 
for such society, you know! But you do.” 

“Mr. Bounderby, you are very* considerate.” 

“You’ll have your own private apartments, 

• and you’ll have your coals and your candles and 
all the rest of it, and you’ll have your maid to 
attend upon you, and you’ll have your light por- 
ter to protect you, and you’ll be what I take 


the liberty of considering precious comforta- 
ble,” said Bounderby. 

“Sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, “say no more. 
In yielding up my trust here, I shall not be 
freed from the necessity of eating the bread of 
dependence;” she might have said the sweet- 
bread, for that delicate article in a savory 
brown sauce was her favorite supper : “ and I 
would rather receive it from' your hand, than 
from any other. Therefore, sir, I accept your 
offer gratefully, and with many sincere ac- 
knowledgments for past favors. And I hope, 
sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, concluding in an im- 
pressively compassionate manner, “ I fondly 
hope that Miss Gradgrind may be all you 
desire, and deserve!” 

Nothing moved Mrs. Sparsit from that posi- 
tion any more. It was in vain for Bounderby 
to bluster, or to assert himself in any of his 
explosive ways ; Mrs. Sparsit was resolved to 
have compassion on him, as a Victim. She 
was polite, obliging, cheerful, hopeful ; but, the 
more polite, the more obliging, the more cheer- 
ful, the more hopeful, the more exemplary 
altogether, she ; the forlorner Sacrifice and 
Victim, he. She had that tenderness for his 
melancholy fate, that his great red countenance 
used to break out into cold perspirations when 
she looked at him. 

Meanwhile the marriage was appointed 
to be solemnized in eight weeks’ time, and 
Mr. Bounderby went every evening to Stone 
Lodge as an accepted wooer. Love was made 
on these occasions in the form of bracelets ; 
and, on all occasions during the period of be- 
trothal, took a manufacturing aspect. Dresses 
were made, jewellery was made, cakes and 
gloves were made, settlements were made, and 
an extensive assortment of Facts did appro- 
priate honor to the contract. The business 
was all Fact, from first to last. The Hours 
did not go through any of those rosy perform- 
ances, which foolish poets have ascribed to 
them at such times; neither did the clocks go 
any faster, or any slower, than at other sea- 
sons. The deadly-statistical recorder in the 
Gradgrind observatory knocked every second 
on the head as it was born, and buried it with 
his accustomed regularity. 

So the day came, as all other days come to 
people who will only stick to reason ; and when 
it came, there were married in the church of 
the fiorid wooden legs — that popular order of 
architecture — Josiah Bounderby, Esquire, of 
Coketown, to Louisa, eldestdaughter of Thomas 
Gradgrind, Esquire, of Stone Lodge, M. P. for 
that borough. And when they were united in 
holy matrimony, they went home to breakfast 
at Stone Lodge aforesaid. 

There was^ an improving party assembled 
on the auspicious occasion, who knew what 
everything they had^ to eat and drink was 
made of, and how it was imported or ex- 
orted, and in what quantities, and in what 
ottonis, whether native or foieign, and all 
about it. The bridesmaids, down to little 
Jane Gradgrind, were, in an intellectual 


HARD 

oint of view, fit helpmates for the calculating 
oy ; and there was no nonsense about any of 
the company. 

After breakfast, the bridegroom addressed 
them in the following terms: 

‘‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am Josiah Boun- 
derby of Coketown. Since you have done my 
wife and myself the honor of drinking our 
healths and happiness, I suppose I must ac- 
knowledge the same; though, as you all know 
me, and know what I am, and what my ex- 
traction was, you won’t expect a speech from 
a man who, when he sees a Post, says ‘that’s 
a Post,’ and when he sees a Pump, says ‘that’s 
a Pump,’ and is not to be got to call a Post a 
Pump, or a Pump a Post, or either of them a 
Toothpick. If you want a speech this morning, 
my friend and father-in-law, Tom Gradgrind, 
is a member of Parliament, and you know 
where to get it. I am not your man. How- 
ever, if I feel a little independent when I look 
around this table to day, and reflect how little 
I thought of marrying Tom Gradgrind’s daugh- 
ter when I was a ragged street-boy, who never 
washed his face unless it was at a pump, and 
that not oftener than once a fortnight, I hope 
I may be excused. So, I hope you like my 
feeling independent; if you don’t, I can’t help 
it. I do feel independent. Now, I have men- 
tioned, and you have mentioned, that I am this 
day married to Tom Gradgrind’s daughter. 1 
am very glad to be so. It has long been my 
wish to be so. I have watched her bringing 
up, and I believe she is worthy of me. At the 
same time — not to deceive you — I believe I 
am worthy of her. So, I thank you, on both our 
parts, for the goodwill you have shown towards 
us ; and the best wish 1 can give the unmar- 
ried part of the present company, is this: I 
hope every bachelor may find as good a wife as 
I have found. And I hope every spinster may 
find as good a husband as my wife has found.” 

Shortly after which oration, as they were 
going on a nuptial trip to Lyons, in order 
that Mr. Bounderby might take the^ oppor- 
tunity of seeing how the Hands got on in those 
parts, and whether they, too, required to be fed 
with gold spoons; the happy pair departed for 
the railroad. The bride, in passing down 
stairs, dressed for her journey, found Tom wait- 
ing for her— flushed, either with his feelings 
or the vinous part of the breakfast. 

“What a game girl you are, to be such a 
first-rate sister, Lool” whispered Tom. 

She clung to him, as she should have clung 
to some far better nature that day, and was a 
little shaken in her reserved composure for the 
first time. 

‘‘Old Bounderby’s quite ready,” said Tom. 
“Time’s up. Good bye 1 I shall be on the 
look-out for you when you come back. I say, 
my dear Loo! An’t it uncommonly jolly now?” 

CHAPTER XVII. 

A SUNNY midsummer day. Thef& was such 
a thing sometimes, e'^eu in Coketown. 


TIMES. 121 

Seen from a distance in such weather, Coke- 
town lay shrouded in a haze of its own, which 
appeared impervious to the sun’s rays. You 
only knew the town was there, because you 
knew there could have been no such sulky 
blotch upon the prospect without a town. A 
blur of soot and smoke, now confusedly tend- 
ing this way, now that way, now aspiring to 
the vault of heaven, now murkily creeping 
along the earth, as the wind rose and fell, or 
changed its quarter : a dense formless jumble, 
with sheets of cross light in it, that showed 
nothing but masses of darkness : Coketown in 
the distance was suggestive of itself, though 
not a brick of it could be seen. 

The wonder was, it was there at all. It 
had been ruined so often, that it was amazing 
how it had borne so many 'shocks. Surely 
there never was such fragile china-ware as 
that of which the millers of Coketown were 
made. Handle them never so lightly, and 
they fell to pieces with such ease that you 
might suspect them of having been flawed be- 
fore. They were ruined, when they were re- 
quired to send laboring children to school; they 
were ruined, when inspectors were appointed 
to look into their works; they were ruined, when 
such inspectors considered it doubtful whe- 
ther they were quite justified in chopping 
people up with their machinery; they were 
utterly undone, when it was hinted that per- 
haps they need not always make quite so much 
smoke. Besides Mr. Bounderby’s gold spoon 
which was generally received in Coketown, 
another prevalent fiction was very popular 
there. It took the form of a threat. When- 
ever a Coketowner felt he was ill-used — that is 
to say, v/henever he was not left entirely alone, 
and it was proposed to hold him accountable 
for the consequences of any of his acts — he 
was sure to come out with the awful menace, 
that he would “sooner pitch his property into 
the Atlantic.” This had terrified the Home 
Secretary within an inch of his life, on several 
occasions. 

However, the Coketowners were so patriotic 
after all, that they never had pitched their pro- 
perty into the Atlantic yet, but on the contrary, 
had been kind enough to take mighty good 
care of it. So there it was, in a haze yonder; 
and it increased and multiplied. 

The streets were hot and dusty on the 
summer day, and the sun was so bright that 
it even shone through the heavy vapor 
drooping over Coketown, and could not be 
looked at steadily. Stokers emerged from 
low underground doorways into factory yards, 
and sat on steps, and posts, and palings, 
wiping their swarthy visages, and contem- 
plating coals. The whole town seemed to be 
frying in oil. There was a stifling smell of 
hot oil everywhere. The steam-engines shone 
with it, the dresses of the Hands were soiled 
with it, the mills throughout their many stories 
oozed and trickled it. The atmosphere of 
those Fairy palaces was like the breath of the 
simoom ; and their inhabitants, wasting with 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


122 

heat, toiled languidly in the desert. But no 
temperature made the melancholy mad 
elephants more mad or more sane. Their 
wearisome heads went up and down at the 
same rate, in hot weather and cold, wet 
weather and dry, fair weather and foul. The 
tneasured motion of their shadows on the 
walls, was the substitute Coketown had to 
show for the shadows of rustling woods j while 
for the summer hum of insects, it could offer, 
all the year round, from the dawn of Monday 
to the night of Saturday, the whirr of shafts 
and wheels. 

Drowsily, they whirred all through this 
sunny day, making the passenger more sleepy 
and more hot as he passed the humming walls 
of the mills. Sunblinds, and sprinklings of 
water, a little cooled the main streets and the 
shops ; but the mills, and the courts and alleys, 
baked at a fierce heat. Down upon the river 
that was black and thick with dye, some Coke- 
town boys who were at large — a rare sight 
there — rowed a crazy boat, which made a spu- 
mous track upon the water as it jogged along, 
while every dip of an oar stirred up vile 
smells. But the sun itself, however be- 
neficent generally, was less kind to Coke- 
town than hard frost and rarely looked in- 
tently into any of its closer regions with- 
out engendering more death than life. 
So does the eye of Heaven itself become an 
evil eye, when incapable or sordid hands are 
interposed between it and the things it looks 
upon to bless. 

Mrs. Sparsit sat in her afternoon apartment 
at the Bank, on the shadier side of the frying 
street. Office- hours were over; and at that 
period of the day, in warm weather, she usually 
embellished with her genteel presence, a mana- 
gerial board-room over the public office. Her 
own private sitting-room was a story higher, 
at the window of which post of observation 
she was ready, every morning, to greet Mr. 
Bounderby as he came across the road, with 
the sympathising recognition appropriate to a 
Victim. He had been married now, a year ; 
and Mrs. Sparsit had never released him from 
her determined pity a moment. 

The Bank offered no violence to the whole- 
some monotony of the town. It was another 
red brick house, with black outside shutters, 
green inside blinds, a black street door up two 
white steps, a brazen door-plate and a brazen 
door handle full stop. It was a size larger than 
Mr. Bounderby’s house, as other houses were 
from a size to half-a-dozen sizes smaller ; in all 
other particulars, it was strictly according to 
pattern. 

Mrs. Sparsit was conscious that by coming 
in the evening-tide among the desks and 
writing implements, she shed a feminine, not 
to say also aristocratic, grace upon the office. 
Seated, with her needlework or netting appara- 
tus, at the window, she had a self-laudatory 
sense of correcting, by her lady-like deport- 
ment, the rude business aspect of the place. 
With this impression of her interesting char- 


acter upon her, Mrs. Sparsit considered her- 
self, in some sort, the Bank Fairy. The towns- 
people who, in their passing and re-passing, 
saw her there, regarded her as the Bank 
Dragon, keeping watch over the treasures of 
the mine. 

What those treasures were, Mrs. Sparsit 
knew as little as they did. Gold and silver 
coin, precious paper, secrets that if divulged 
would bring vague destruction upon vague 
persons (generally, however, people whom 
she disliked), were the chief items in her 
ideal catalogue thereof. For the rest, she 
knew that after office hours, she reigned su- 
preme over all the office furniture, and over a 
locked-up iron room with three locks, against 
the door of which strong chamber the light 
porter laid his head every night, on a truckle 
bed that disappeared at cockcrow. Further, 
she was lady paramount over certain vaults 
in the basements, sharply spiked off from 
communication with the predatory world; and 
over the relics of the current day’s work, con- 
sisting of blots of ink, worn out pens, frag- 
ments of wafers, and scraps of paper torn so 
small, that nothing interesting could ever be 
deciphered on them when Mrs. Sparsit 
tried. Lastly, she was guardian over a little 
armory of cutlasses and carbines, arrayed 
in vengeful order above one of the official 
chimney-pieces ; and over that respectable 
tradition never to be separated from a place of 
business claiming to be wealthy — a row of fire- 
buckets — vessels calculated to be of no physi- 
cal utility on any occasion, but observed to 
exercise a fine moral influence, almost equal to 
bullion, on most beholders. 

A deaf serving- woman and the light porter 
completed Mrs. Sparsit’s empire. The deaf 
serving- woman was rumored to be wealthy ; and 
a saying had for many years gone about among 
the lower orders of Coketown, that she would 
be murdered some night when the Bank was 
shut, for the sake of her money. It was 
generally considered, indeed, that she had 
been due some time, and ought to have fallen 
long ago ; but she had kept her life, and her 
situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that 
occasioned much offence and disappointment. 

Mrs. Sparsit’s tea was'just set for her on a 
pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an 
attitude, which she insinuated after office 
hours, into the company of the stern, leathern 
topped, long board-table that bestrode the 
middle of the room. The light porter placed 
the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as 
a form of homage. 

“Thank you, Bitzer,” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

“Thank you^ ma’am,” returned the light 
porter. He was a very light porter indeed ; 
as light as in the days when he blinkingly 
defined a horse, for girl number twenty. 

“All is shut up, Bitzer ?” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

“All is shut up, ma’am.” 

“And what,” said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring 
out her tea, “is the news of the day ? Any- 
thing ?” 


HARD TIMES. 123 


^^Well, ma’am, I can’t say that I have heard 
anything particular. Our people are a bad 
lot, ma’am j but that is no news, unfortu- 
nately.” 

“What are the restless wretches doing now?” 
asked Mrs. Sparsit. 

“Merely going on in the old way, ma’am. 
Uniting, and leaguing, and engaging to stand 
by one another.” 

“It is much to be regretted,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, making her nose more Roman and 
her eyebrows more Coriolanian in the strength 
of her severity, “that the united masters allow 
of any such class combinations.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Bitzer. 

“ Being united themselves, they ought one 
and all to set their faces against employing any 
man who is united with any other man,” said 
Mrs. Sparsit. 

“They have done that, ma’am,” returned 
Bitzer; “but — it rather fell through, ma’am.” 

“I do not pretend to understand these 
things,” said Mrs. Sparsit, with dignity, “my 
lot having been originally cast in a widely dif- 
ferent sphere; and Mr. Sparsit, as a Powler, 
being also quite out of the pale of any such 
dissensions. I only know that these people 
must be conquered, and that it’s high time it 
was done, once for all.” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” returned Bitzer, with a 
demonstration of great respect for Mrs. Spar- 
sit’s oracular authority. “You couldn’t put it 
clearer, I am sure, ma’am.” 

As this was his usual hour for having a lit- 
tle confidential chat with Mrs. Sparsit, and as 
he had already caught her eye and seen that 
she was going to ask him something, he made 
a pretence of arranging the rulers, inkstands, 
and so forth, while that lady went on with her 
tea, glancing through the open window down 
into the street. 

“Has it been a busy day, Bitzer?” asked Mrs. 
Sparsit. 

“Not a very busy day, my lady. About an 
average day.” He now and then slided into 
my lady, instead of ma’am, as an involuntary 
acknowledgment of Mrs. Sparsit’s personal 
dignity and claims to reverence. 

“The clerks,” said Mrs. Sparsit, carefully 
brushing an imperceptible crumb of bread and 
butter from her left-hand mitten, “are trust- 
worthy, punctual, and industrious, of course ?” 

“ Y es, ma’am, pretty fair ma’am. With the 
usual exception.” 

He held the respectable office of general 
spy and informer in the establishment, for 
which volunteer service he received a pre- 
sent at Christmas, over and above his weekly 
wat^e. He had grown into an extremely clear- 
heSed, cautious, prudent young man, who 
was safe to rise in the world. His mind was 
so exactly regulated, that he had no affections 
or passions. All his proceedings were the 
result of the nicest and coldest calculation ; 
and it was not without cause that Mrs. Sparsit 
habitually observed of him, that he was a 
young man of the steadiest principle she had 


ever known. Having satisfied himself, on 
his father’s death, that his mother had a right 
of settlement in Coketown, this excellent 
young economist had asserted that right for 
her with such a steadfast adherence to the 
principle of the case, that she had been shut 
up in the workhouse ever since. It must be 
admitted that he allowed her half a pound of 
tea a year, which was weak in him ; first, 
because all gifts have an inevitable tendency 
to pauperize the recipient, and secondly, be- 
cause his only reasonable transaction in that 
commodity would have been to buy it for as 
little as he could possibly give, and sell it for 
as much as he could possibly get ; it having 
been clearly ascertained by philosophers that 
in this is comprised the whole duty of man — 
not a part of man’s duty, but the whole. 

“Pretty fair, ma’am. With the usual excep- 
tion, ma’am,” repeated Bitzer. 

“Ah — h!” said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her 
head over her tea-cup, and taking a long gulp. 

“Mr. Thomas, ma’am, I doubt Mr. Thomas 
very much, ma’am, I don’t like his ways at 
all.” 

“Bitzer,” said Mrs. Sparsit, in a very im- 
pressive manner, “do you recollect my having 
said anything to you respecting names?” 

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. It’s quite true 
that you did object to names being used, and 
they’re always best avoided.” 

“Please to remember that I have a charge 
here,” said Mrs. Sparsit, with her air of 
state. “I hold a trust here, Bitzer, under 
Mr. Bounderby. However improbable both 
Mr. Bounderby and myself might have deem- 
ed it years ago, that he would ever become 
my patron, making me an annual compli- 
ment, I cannot but regard him in that light. 
From Mr. Bounderby I have received every 
acknowledgment of my social station, and 
every recognition of my family descent, that 
I could possibly expect. More, far more. 
Therefore, to my patron I will be scrupulously 
true. And I do not consider, I will not con- 
sider, I cannot consider,” said Mrs. Sparsit, 
with a most extensive stock on hand of honor 
and morality, “that I should be scrupulously 
true, if I allowed names to be mentioned 
under this roof, that are unfortunately — most 
unfortunately — no doubt of that — connected 
with his.” 

Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, and again 
begged pardon. 

“No, Bitzer,” continued Mrs. Sparsit, “say 
an individual, and I will hear you ; say Mr. 
Thomas, and you must excuse me.” 

“ With the usual exception, ma’am;” said 
Bitzer, trying back, “of an indvidual.” 

“ Ah — h 1” Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejacu- 
lation, the shake of the head over her tea-cup, 
and the long gulp, as taking up the conversa- 
tion again at the point where it had been in- 
terrupted. 

“An individual, ma’am,” said Bitzer, “has 
lever been what he onght to have been, since 
he first came into the place. He is a dissipa- 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


124 

ted, extravagant idler. He is not worth his 
salt, ma’am. He wouldn’t get it either, if 
he hadn’t a friend and relation at court, 
ma’am 1” 

“Ah — h!” said Mrs. Sparsit, with another 
melancholy shake of her head. 

“I only hope, ma’am,” pursued Bitzer, 
“that his friend and relation may not supply 
him with the means of carrying on. Other- 
wise, ma’am, we know out of whose pocket 
that money comes.” 

“Ah — h I” sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with 
another melancholy shake of her head. 

“He is to be pitied, ma’am. The last party 
I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma’am,” said 
Bitzer. 

“Yes, Bitzer,” said Mrs. Sparsit. “I have 
always pitied the delusion, always.” 

“As to an individual, ma’am,” said Bitzer, 
dropping his voice and drawing nearer, “he 
is as improvident as any of the people in this 
town. And you know what their improvi- 
dence is, ma’am. No one could wish to know 
it better than a lady of your eminence does.” 

“They would do well,” returned Mrs. Spar- 
sit, “to take example by you, Bitzer.” 

“Thank you, ma’am. But, since you do 
refer to me, now look at me, ma’am. I have 
put by a little, ma’am, already. That gratuity 
which I receive at Christmas, ma’am: I never 
touch it. I don’t even go the length of my 
wages, though they’re not high, ma’am. Why 
can’t they do as I have done, ma’am ? What 
one person can do, another can do.” 

This, again, was among the fictions of Coke- 
town. Any capitalist there, who had made 
sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always 
professed to wonder why the sixty thousand 
nearest Hands didn’t each make sixty thou- 
sand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less 
reproached them every one for not accomplish- 
ing the little feat. What I did, you can do. 
Why don’t you go and do it ? 

“As to their wanting recreations, ma’am,” 
said Bitzer, “it’s stuff and nonsense. I don’t 
want recreations. I never did, and I never 
shall ; I don’t like ’em. As to their combi- 
ning together •, there are many of them, I have 
no doubt, that by watching and informing 
upon one another could earn a trifle now and 
then, whether in money or good will, and im- 
prove their livelihood. Then, why don’t they 
improve it, ma’am ? It’s the first considera- 
tion of a rational creature, and it’s what they 
pretend to want.” 

“ Pretend indeed 1” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

“I am sure we are constantly hearing, 
ma’am, till it becomes quite nauseous, con- 
cerning their wives and families,” said Bitzer. 
“ Why look at me, ma’am I 1 don’t want a 
wife and family. Why should they ?” 

“ Because they are improvident,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit. 

“Yes, ma’am,” returned Bitzer, “that’s 
where it is. If they were more provident, and 
less perverse, ma’am, what would they do? 
They would say, ‘ While my hat covers my 


family,’ or, Vhile my bonnet covers my family’ 
— as the case might be, ma’am — ^ I have only 
one to feed, and that’s the person I most like 
to feed.’” 

“ To be sure,” assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating 
muffin. 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” said Bitzer, knuck 
ling his forehead again, in return for the 
favour of Mrs. Sparsit’s improving conversa- 
tion. “Would you wish a little more hot water, 
ma’am, or is there anything else that I could 
fetch you ?” 

“Nothing just now, Bitzer.” 

“Thank you, ma’am. I shouldn’t wish to 
disturb you at your meals, ma’am, particularly 
tea, knowing your partiality for it,” said Bitzer, 
craning a little to look over into the street 
from where he stood; “but there’s a gentleman 
been looking up here for a minute or so, 
ma’am, and he has come across as if he was 
going to knock. That is his knock, ma’am, no 
doubt.” 

He stepped to the window ; and looking out, 
and drawing in his head again, confirmed him- 
self with, “Yes, ma’am. Would you wish the 
gentleman to be shown in, ma’am ?” 

“I don’t know who it can be,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her 
mittens. 

“A stranger, ma’am, evidently.” 

“What a stranger can want at the Bank at 
this time of the evening, unless he comes upon 
some business for which he is too late, I don’t 
know,” said Mrs. Sparsit; “but I hold a charge 
in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and 
I will never shrink from it. If to see him is 
any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see 
him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer.” 

Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. 
Sparsit’s magnanimous words, repeated his 
knock so loudly that the light porter hastened 
down to open the door ; while Mrs. Sparsit took 
the precaution of concealing her little table, 
with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, 
and then decamped up stairs that she might 
appear, if needful, with greater dignity. 

“ If you please, ma’am, the gentleman would 
wish to see you,” said Bitzer, with his light 
eye at Mrs. Sparsit’s keyhole. So, Mrs. Spar- 
sit, who had improved the interval by touching 
up her cap, took her classical features down 
stairs again, and entered the board room in 
the manner of a Roman matron going outside 
the city walls to treat with an invading general. 

The visiter having strolled to the window, 
and being then engaged in looking carelessly 
out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry 
as nian could possibly be. He stood whistling 
to himself with all imaginable coolness, with 
his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion 
upon him, in part arising from excessive 
summer, and in part from excessive gentility. 
For, it was to be seen with half an eye that he 
was a thorough gentleman, made to the model 
of the time; weary of everything, and puttin® 
no more faith in anything than Lucifer. ^ 


HARD TIMES. 


*^I believe, air,” quoth Mrs. Sparsit, “you 
wished to see me.” 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, turning and 
removing his hat; “pray excuse me.” 

“Humphl” thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she 
made a stately bend. “Five and thirty, good 
looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, 
good breeding, well dressed, dark hair, bold 
eyes.” All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in 
her womanly way — like the Sultan who put 
his head in the pail of water — merely in dip- 
ping down and coming up again. 

“Please to be seated, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

“Thank you. Allow me.” He placed a 
chair for her, but remained himself carelessly 
lounging against the table. “I left my servant 
at the railway looking after the luggage — very 
heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van 
— and strolled on, looking about me. Ex- 
ceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to 
ask you if it’s always as black as this?” 

“In general much blacker,” returned Mrs. 
Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. 

“ Is it possible 1 Excuse me : you are not 
a native, I think ?” 

“No, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit. It was 
once my good or ill fortune, as it may be — be- 
fore I became a widow — to move in a very dif- 
ferent sphere. My husband was a Powler.” 

“Beg your pardon, really !” said the stran- 
ger. “Was—?” 

Mrs. Sparsit repeated, “A Powler.” “Pow- 
ler Family,” said the stranger, after reflecting 
a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. 
The stranger seemed a little more fatigued 
than before. 

“You must be very much bored here ?” was 
the inference he drew from the communica- 
tion. 

“I am the servant of circumstances, sir,” 
said Mrs. Sparsit, “and I have long adapted 
myself to the governing power of my life.” 

“Very philosophical,” returned the stranger, 
“and very exemplary and laudable, and — ” 
It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to 
finish the sentence, so he played with his 
watch-chain wearily. 

“May I be permitted to ask, sir,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, to what I am indebted for the favour 
of—” 

“Assuredly,” said the stranger. “Much 
obliged to you for reminding me. I am the 
bearer of a letter of introduction to Mr. Boun- 
derby the Banker. Walking through this extra- 
ordinarily black town, while they were getting 
dinner ready at the hotel, I asked a fellow 
whom I met ; one of the working people ; who 
appeared to have been taking a shower-bath 
of something flufiy, which I assume to be the 
raw material j — ” 

Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head. 

“ — Raw material — where Mr. Bounderby 
the Banker, might reside. Upon which, mis- 
led no doubt by the word Banker, he directed 
me to the Bank. Fact being, I presume, that 
Mr. Bounderby the Banker, does not reside in 


125 

the edifice in which I have the honour of offer- 
ing this explanation ?” 

“No, sir, returned Mrs. Sparsit, “he does 
not.” 

“Thank you. I had no intention of deliver- 
ing my letter at the present moment, nor have 
I. But, strolling on to the Bank to kill 
time, and having the good fortune to observe 
at the window,” towards which he languidly 
waved his hand, then slightly bowed, “a lady 
of a very superior and agreeable appearance, I 
considered that I could not do better than take 
the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Boun- 
derby the Banker, does live. Which I accord- 
ingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to 
do.” 

The inattention and indolence of his manner 
were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit’s 
thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which 
offered her homage too. Here he was, for in- 
stance, at this moment, all but sitting on the 
table, and yet lazily bending over her, as if he 
acknowledged an attraction in her that made 
her charming — in her way. 

“Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and 
officially must be,” said the stranger, whose 
lightness and smoothness of speech were 
pleasant likewise ; suggesting matter far more 
sensible and humorous than it ever contained 
— which was perhaps a shrewd device of the 
founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may 
have been that great man ; “therefore I may 
observe that my letter — here it is — is from the 
member for this place — Gradgrind — whom I 
have had the plea sure of knowing in London.” 

Mrs. Sparsit recognised the hand, intimated 
that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, 
and gave Mr. Bounderby ’s address, with all 
needful clues and directions in aid. 

“Thousand thanks,” said the stranger. “Of 
course you know the Banker well ?” 

“Yes, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. “In my 
dependent relation towards him, I have known 
him ten years.” 

“Quite an eternity I I think he married 
Gradgrind’s daughter ?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly com- 
pressing her mouth. “He had that — honor.” 

“The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?” 

“Indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit. Is she ?” 

“Excuse my impertinent curiosity,” pursued 
the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit’s eye- 
brows, with a propitiatory air, “but you know 
the family, and know the world. I am about 
to know the family, and may have much to 
do with them. Is the lady so very alarming ? 
Her father gives her such a portentously hard- 
headed reputation, that I have a burning de- 
sire to know. Is she absolutely unapproach- 
able? Repellently and stunningly clever? I 
see, by your meaning smile, you think not. 
You have poured balm into my anxious soul. 
As to age, now. Forty? Five and thirty ?” 

Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. “A chit,” 
said she. “Not twenty when she was mar- 
ried.” 

“I give you my honor, Mrs. Powler,” retura- 


12S 


DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 


ed the stranger, detaching himself from the 
table, “ that I never was so astonished in my 
life!” 

It really did seem to impress him, to the 
utmost extent of his capacity of being impress- 
ed. He looked at his informant for full a 
quarter of a minute, and appeared to have the 
surprise in his mind all the time. “ I assure 
ou, Mrs. Powler,” he then said, much ex- 
austed, “ that the father’s manner prepared 
me for a grim and stony maturity. I am 
obliged to you, of all things, for correcting so 
absurd a mistake. Pray excuse my intrusion. 
Many thanks. Good day !” 

He bowed himself out j and Mrs. Sparsit, 
hiding in the window-curtain, saw him languish- 
ing down the street on the shady side of the 
way, observed of all the town. 

“ What do you think of the gentleman, 
Bitzer ?” she asked the light porter, when he 
came to take away. 

“Spends a deal of money on his dress, 
ma’am.” 

“It must be admitted,” said Mrs. Sparsit, 
“that it’s very tasteful.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” returned Bitzer, “if that’s 
worth the money.” 

“Besides which, ma’am,” resumed Bitzer, 
while he was polishing the table, “he looks to 
me as if he gamed.” 

“It’s immoral to game,” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

“It’s ridiculous, ma’am,” said Bitzer, “be- 
cause the chances are against the players.” 

VVhether it was that the heat prevented Mrs. 
Sparsit from working, or whether it was that 
her hand was out, she did no work that night. 
She sat at the window, when the sun began to 
sink behind the smoke; she sat there, when the 
smoke was burning red, when the color faded 
from it, when darkness seemed to rise slowly 
out of the ground, and creep upward, upward, 
up to the house-tops, up the church steeple, up 
to the summits of the factory chimneys, up to the 
sky. Without a candle in the room, Mrs. Sparsit 
sat at the window, with her hands before her, 
not thinking much of the sounds of evening; 
the whooping of boys, the barking of dogs, 
the rumbling of wheels, th,e steps and voices 
of passengers, the shrill street cries, the clogs 
upon the pavement when it was their hour for 
going by, the shutting-up of shop-shutters. 
Not until Ihe light porter announced that her 
nocturnal sweetbread was ready, did Mrs. Spar- 
sit arouse herself from her reverie, and convey 
her dense black eyebrows — by that time 
creased with meditation, as if they needed 
ironing out — up stairs. 

“0, you Fool!” said Mrs. Sparsit, when she 
was alone at her supper. Whom she meant, 
she did not say; but she could scarcely have 
meant the sweetbread. 


CHA.PTER XVIII. 

The Gradgrind party wanted assistance in 
murdering the Graces. They went about re- 
cruiting; and where could they enlist recruits 


more readily, than among the fine gentlemen 
who, having found out everything to be worth 
nothing, wer6 equally ready for anything ? 

Moreover, the healthy spirits who had mounted 
to this sublime height were attractive to many 
of the Gradgrind school. They liked fine gen- 
tlemen ; they pretended that they did not, but 
they did. They became exhausted in imita- 
tion of them; and they yaw-yawed in their 
speech like them ; and they served out, with an 
enervated air, the little mouldy rations of po- 
litical economy, on which they regaled their 
disciples. There never before was seen ou 
earth such a wonderful hybrid race as was thus 
produced. 

Among the fine gentlemen not regularly be- 
longing to the Gradgrind school, there was one 
of a good family and a better appearance, with 
a happy turn of humor which had told im- 
mensely with the House of Commons on the 
occasion of his entertaining it with his (and 
the Board of Directors’) view of a railway 
accident, in which the most careful officers 
ever known, employed by the most liberal 
managers ever heard of, assisted by the finest 
mechanical contrivances ever devised, the 
whole in action on the best line ever con- 
structed, had killed five people and wounded 
thirty-two, by a casualty without which the 
excellence of the whole system would have 
been positively incomplete. Among the slain 
was a cow, and among the scattered articles 
unowned, a widow’s cap. And the honorable 
member had so tickled the House (which 
has a delicate sense of humor) by putting 
the cap on the cow, that it became impatient 
of any serious reference to the Coroner’s In- 
quest, and brought the railway off with Cheers 
and Laughter. 

Now, this gentleman had a younger bro- 
ther of still better appearance than himself, 
who had tried life as a Cornet of Dragoons, 
and found it a bore; and had afterwards tried 
it in the train of an English minister abroad, 
and found it a bore ; and had then strolled to 
Jerusalem, and got bored there; and had then 
gone yachting about the world, and got bored 
everywhere. To whom this honorable and jocu- 
lar member fraternally said one day, “Jem, 
there’s a good opening among the hard Fact 
fellows, and they want men. I wonder you 
don’t go in for statistics.” Jem, rather 
taken by the novelty of the idea, and very 
hard up for a change, was Jts ready to “go 
in” for statistics as for anything else. So, he 
went in. He coached himself up with a blue 
book or two ; and his brother put it 
about among the hard Fact fellows, and said, 
“If you want to bring in, for any place,, a 
handsome dog who can make you a devilish 
good speech, look after my brother Jem, for 
he’s your man.” After a few dashes in the 
public meeting way, Mr. Gradgrind and a 
council of political sages approved of Jem, and 
it was resolved to send him down to Coketown, 
to become known there and in the neighbor- 
hood. Hence the letter Jem had last night 


HARD ' 

shown to Mrs. Sparsit, which Mr. Bounderhy 
now held in his hand; superscribed, “Josiah 
Bounderby, Esquire, Banker, Coketown. Spe- 
cially to introduce James Harthouse, Esquire. 
Thomas Gradgrind.” 

Within an hour of the receipt of this de- 
^atch and Mr. James Harthouse’s card, Mr. 
Bounderby put on his hat and went down to 
the Hotel. There, he found Mr. James Hart- 
house looking out of the window, in a state of 
mind so disconsolate, that he was already half 
disposed to “ go in ” for something else. 

“ My name, sir,” said his visitor, ‘‘ is Josiah 
Bounderby of Coketown.” 

Mr. James Harthouse was very happy 
indeed (though he scarcely looked so), to have 
a pleasure he had long expected. 

^‘Coketown, sir,” said Bounderby, obstinately 
taking a chair, “ is not the kind of place you 
have been accustomed to. Therefore, if you’ll 
allow me — or whether you will or not, for I 
am a plain man — I’ll tell you something about 
it before we go any further.” 

Mr. Harthouse would be charmed. 

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said Boun- 
derby. “I don’t promise it. First of all, 
you see our smoke. That’s meat and drink 
to us. It’s the healthiest thing in the world 
in all respects, and particularly for the 
lungs. If you are one of those who want us 
to consume it, I difier from you. We are not 
going to wear the bottoms of our boilers out 
any faster than we wear ’em out now, for all 
the humbugging sentiment in Great Britain 
and Ireland.” 

By way of “going in” to the fullest extent, 
Mr. Harthouse rejoined, “ Mr. Bounderby, I 
assure you I am entirely and completely of 
your way of thinking. On conviction.” 

“I am glad to hear it,” said Bounderby. 
“Now you have heard a lot of talk about the 
vs^ork ill our mills, no doubt. You have? 
Very good. I’ll state the fact of it to you. 
It’s the pleasantest work there is, and it’s the 
lightest work there is, and it’s the best paid 
work there is. More than that, we couldn’t im- 
prove the mills themselves, unless we laid down 
Turkey carpets on the floors. Which we’re 
not a-going to do.” 

“Mr. Bounderby, perfectly right.” 

“Lastly,” said Bounderby, “as to our Hands. 
There’s not a Hand in this town, sir, man, wo- 
man, or child, but has one ultimate object in 
life. That object is, to be fed on turtle soup 
and venison with a gold spoon. Now, they’re 
not a-going — none of ’em — ever to be fed on 
turtle soup and venison with a gold spoon. 
And now you know the place.” 

Mr. Harthouse professed himself in the 
highest degree instructed and refreshed, by this 
condensed epitome of the whole Coketown 
question. 

“Why, you see,” replied Mr. Bounderby, “it 
suits my disposition to have a full understand- 
ing with a man, particularly with a public 
man, when I make his acquaintance. I have 
only one thing more to say to you, Mr. Hart- 


TIMES. 127 

house, before assuring you of the pleasure with 
which I shall respond, to the utmost of my 
poor ability, to my friend Tom Gradgrind’s 
letter of introduction. You are a man of family. 
Don’t you deceive yourself by supposing for a 
moment that 1 am a man of family. I am a 
bit of dirty riff’-rafif, and a genuine scrap of tag, 
rag, and bobtail.” 

If anything could have exalted Jem’s in- 
terest in Mr. Bounderby, it would have been 
this very circumstance. Or, so he told him. 

“ So now,” said Bounderby, “ we may 
shake hands on equal terms. I say, equal 
terms, because although I know what 1 am, 
and the exact depth of the gutter I have 
lifted myself out of, better than any man does, 
I am as proud as you are. I am just as proud 
as you are. Having now asserted my inde- 
pendence in a proper manner, I may come to 
how do you find yourself, and I hope you’re 
pretty well.” 

The better, Mr. Harthouse gave him to un- 
derstand as they shook hands, for the salubrious 
air of Coketown. Mr. Bounderby received 
the answer with favor. 

“Perhaps you know,” said he, “or perhaps 
you don’t know, I married Tom Gradgrind’s 
daughter. If you have nothing better to do 
than to walk up town with me, I shall be 
glad to introduce you to Tom Gradgrind’s 
daughter.” 

“ Mr. Bounderby,” said Jem, “ you antici- 
pate my dearest wishes.” 

They went- out without further discourse ; 
and Mr. Bounderby piloted the new acquain- 
tance who so strongly contrasted with him, to 
the private red brick dwelling, with the black 
outside shutters, the green inside blinds, and 
the black street door up the two white steps. 
In the drawing-room of which mansion, there 
presently entered to them the most remark- 
able girl Mr. James Harthouse had ever seen. 
She was so constrained, and yet so careless ; so 
reserved, and yet so watchful; so cold and 
proud, and yet so sensitively ashamed of her 
husband’s braggart humility — from which she 
shrunk as if every example of it were a cut or 
a blow; that it was quite a new sensation to 
observe her. In face she was no less remark- 
able than in manner. Her features were hand- 
some; but their natural play was so suppressed 
and locked up, that it seemed impossible to 
guess at their genuine expression. Utterly in- 
diSerent, perfectly self reliant, never at a loss, 
and yet never at her ease, with her figure in 
company with them there, and her mind appa- 
rently quite alone — it was of no use “goin y in” 
yet awhile to comprehend this girl, for she baf- 
fled all penetration. 

From the mistress of the house, the visiter 
glanced to the house itself. There was no 
mute sign of a woman in the room, No 
graceful little adornment, no fanciful little 
device, however trivial, anywhere expressed 
her influence. Cheerless and comfortless, 
boastfully and doggedly rich, there the room 
stared at its present occupants, unsoftened and 


128 


DICKENS^ NEW STOEIES. 


unrelieved by tbe least trace of any womanly 
occupation. As Mr. Bounderby stood in the 
midst of his household gods, so those unrelent- 
ing divinities occupied their places around Mr. 
Baunderby, and they were worthy of one 
another and well matched. 

“This, sir,” said Bounderby, “is my wife, 
Mrs. Bounderby; Tom Gradgrind’s eldest 
daughter. Loo, Mr. James Harthouse. Mr. 
Harlhouse has joined your father’s muster- 
roll. If he is not Tom Gradgrind’s col- 
league before long, I believe we shall at least 
hear of him in connexion with one of our 
neighboring towns. You observe, Mr. Hart- 
house, that my wife is my junior. I don’t 
know what she saw in me to marry me, but 
she saw something in me, I suppose, or she 
wouldn’t have married me. She has lots of 
expensive knowledge, sir, political and other- 
wise. If you want to cram for anything, I 
should be troubled to recommend you to a 
better adviser than Loo Bounderby.” 

To a more agreeable adviser, or one from 
whom he would be more likely to learn, Mr. 
Harthouse could never be recommended. 

“ Come I” said his host. “ If you’re in 
the complimentary line, you'll get on here, 
for you’ll meet with no competition. I have 
never been in the way of learning compliments 
myself, and I don’t profess to understand the 
art of paying ’em. In fact, I despise ’em. 
But, your bringing-up was different from mine; 
mine was a real thing, by George! You’re a 
gentleman, and I don’t pretend to be one. I 
am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, and that’s 
enough for me. However, though I am not 
influenced by manners and station. Loo Bound- 
erby may be. She hadn’t my advantages — dis- 
advantages you would call ’em, but I call ’em 
advantages — so you’ll not waste your power, I 
dare say.” 

“Mr. Bounderby,” said Jem, turning with 
a smile to Louisa, “is a noble animal in a 
comparatively natural state, quite free from 
the harness in which a conventional hack like 
myself works.” 

“You respect Mr. Bounderby very much,” 
she quietly returned. “It is natural that you 
should.” 

He was disgracefully thrown out, for a 
gentleman who had seen so much of the 
world, and thought — “Now, how am I to take 
this ?” 

“You are going to devote yourself, as I 
gather from what Mr. Bounderby has said, 
to the service of your country. You have 
made up your mind,” said Louisa, still 
standing before him where she had first 
stopped — in all the singular contrariety of her 
self-possession, and her being obviously so 
very ill at ease — “ to show the nation the way 
out of all its difficulties.” 

“ Mrs. Bounderby,” he returned laughing, 
“upon my honor, no. I will make no such 
pretence to you. I have seen a little, here 
and there, up and down ; I have found it all to 


be very worthless, as everybody has, and as 
some confess they have, and some do not ; and 
I am going in for your respected father’s opi- 
nions — really because I have no choice of opi- 
nions, and may as well back them as anything 
else.” 

“ Have you none of your own ?” asked 
Louisa. 

“ I have not so much as the slightest pre- 
dilection left. I assure you I attach not the 
least importance to any opinions. The result 
of the varieties of boredom I have under- 
gone, is a conviction (unless conviction is too 
industrious a word for the lazy sentiment I 
entertain on the subject), that any set of ideas 
will do just as much good as any other set, and 
just as much harm as any other set. There’s 
an English family with a capital Italian motto. 
What will be, will be. It’s the only truth 
going I” 

This vicious assumption of honesty in dis- 
honesty — a vice so dangerous, so deadly, and 
so common — seemed, he observed, a little to 
impress her in his favor. He followed up the 
advantage, by saying in his pleasantest man- 
ner ; a manner to which she might attach 
as much or as little meaning as she pleased; 
“ The side that can prove anything in a 
line of units, tens, hundreds and thousands, 
Mrs. Bounderby, seems to me to afford the 
most fiin, and to give a man the best chance. 
I am quite as much attached to it as if I be- 
lieved it. I am quite ready to go in for it, to 
the same extent as if I believed it. And what 
more could I possibly do, if I did believe it!” 

“You are a singular politician,” said Louisa. 

“Pardon me; I have not even that merit. 
We are the largest party in the state, I assure 
you, Mrs. Bounderby, if we all fell out of our 
adopted ranks and were reviewed together.” 

Mr. Bounderby, who had been in danger of 
bursting in silence, interposed here with a pro- 
ject for postponing the family dinner to half- 
past six, and taking Mr. James Harthouse in 
the meantime on a round of visits to the voting 
and interesting notabilities of Coketown and 
its vicinity. The round of visits was made; 
and Mr. J ames Harthouse, with a discreet use 
of his blue coaching, came off triumphantly, 
though with a considerable accession of bore- 
dom. 

In the evening, he found the dinner-table 
laid for four, but they sat down only three. 
It was an appropriate occasion for Mr. Boun- 
derby to discuss the flavor of the hap’orth 
of stewed eels he had purchased in the streets 
at eight years old, and also of the inferior 
water, specially used for laying the dust, 
with which he had washed down that repast. 
He likewise entertained his guest, over the 
soup and fish, with the calculation that he 
(Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least 
three horses under the guise of polonies and 
saveloys. These recitals, Jem, in a languid 
manner, received with “ charming !” every 
now and then ; and they probably would have 
decided him to go in for Jerusalem again to- 


HARD 

morrow morning, had he been less curious re- 
specting Louisa. 

“ Is there nothing,” he thought, glancing at 
her as she sat at the hoad of the table, where 
her youthful figure, small and slight, but very 
graceful, looked as pretty as it looked mis- 
placed; “is there nothing that will move that 
face?” 

Yes I By Jupiter, there was something, and 
here it was, in an unexpected shape I Tom 
appeared. She changed as the door opened, 
and broke into a beaming smile. 

A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse 
might not have thought so much of it, but that 
he had wondered so long at her impassive 
face. She put out her hand — a pretty little 
soft hand ; and her fingers closed upon her 
brother’s, as if she would have carried them 
to her lips. 

“Ay, ay?” thought the visiter. “This 
whelp is the only creature she cares for. 
So, so 1” 

The whelp was presented, and took his 
chair. The appellation was not flattering, but 
not unmerited. 

“When I was your age, young Tom,” said 
Bounderby, “I was punctual, or I got no 
dinner !” 

“When you were my age,” returned Tom, 
“you hadn’t a wrong balance to get right, and 
hadn’t to dress afterwards.” 

“Never mind that now,” said Bounderby. 

“Well, then,” grumbled Tom. “Don’t be- 
gin with me.” 

“Mrs. Bounderby,” said Harthouse, perfect- 
ly hearing this under-strain as it went on; 
“your brother’s face is quite familiar to me. 
Can I have seen him abroad ? Or at some 
public school, perhaps ?” 

“No,” she returned, quite interested, “he 
has never been abroad yet, and was educated 
here, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. 
Harthouse that he never saw you abroad.” 

“No such luck, sir,” said Tom. 

There was little enough in him to brighten 
her face, for he was a sullen young fellow, and 
ungracious ia his manner even to her. So 
much the greater must have been the solitude 
of her heart, and her need of some one on whom 
to bestow it. “So much the more is this whelp 
the only creature she has ever cared for,” 
thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it over 
and over. “So much the more. So much the 
more.” 

Both in his sister’s presence, and after she 
had left the room, the whelp took no pains to 
hide his contempt for Mr. Bounderby, when- 
ever he could indulge it without the observa- 
tion of that independent man, by making wry 
faces, or shutting one eye. Without respond- 
ing to these telegraphic communications, Mr. 
Harthouse encouraged him much in the course 
of the evening, and showed an unusual liking 
for him. At last, when he rose to return to 
his hotel, and was a little doubtful whether he 
knew the way by night, the whelp immediately 
9 


TIMES. 

proffered his services as guide, and turned out 
with him to escort him thither. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

It was very remarkable that a young gen- 
tleman who had been brought up under one 
continuous system of unnatural restraint, 
should be a hypocrite ; but it was certainly the 
case with Tom. It was very strange that a 
young gentleman who had never been left to 
his own guidance for five consecutive minutes, 
should be incapable at last of governing him- 
self ; but so it was with Tom. It was alto- 
gether unaccountable that a young gentleman 
whose imagination had been strangled in hi? 
cradle, should be still inconvenienced by its 
ghost in the form of grovelling sensualities; 
but such a monster, beyond all doubt, was 
Tom. 

“Do you srnoke ?” asked Mr. James Hart- 
house, when they came to the hotel. 

“I believe you 1” said Tom. 

He could do no less than ask Tom up ; 
and Tom could do no less than go up. What 
with a cooling drink adapted to the weather, 
but not so weak as cool ; and what with a 
rarer tobacco than was to be bought in those 
parts ; Tom was soon in a highly free and easy 
state at his end of the sofa, and more than 
ever disposed to admire his new friend at the 
other end. 

Tom blew his smoke aside, after he had 
been smoking a little while, and took an ob- 
servation of his friend. “He don’t seem to 
care about his dress,” thought Tom, “ and yet 
how capitally he does it. What an easy swell 
he is!” 

Mr. James Harthouse, happening to catch 
Tom’s eye, remarked that he drank nothing, 
and filled his glass with his own negligent 
hand., 

“Thank’ee,” said Tom. “Thank’ee. Well, 
Mr. Harthouse, I hope you have had about 
a dose of old Bounderby to-night.” Tom 
said this with one eye shut up again, and 
looking over his glass knowingly, at his enter- 
tainer. 

“A very good fellow indeed 1” returned 
Mr. James Harthouse. 

“You think so, don’t you ?” said Tom. And 
shut up his eye again. 

Mr. James Harthouse smiled; and risin; 
from his end of the sofa, and lounging witn 
his back against the chimney-piece, so that 
he stood before the empty fire-grate as he 
smoked, in front of Tom, and looking down 
at him, observed : 

“ What a comical brother-in-law you are !” 

“ What a comical brother-in-law old Boun- 
derby is, I think you mean,” said Tom. 

“ You are a piece of caustic, Tom,” retorted 
Mr. James Harthouse. 

There was something so very agreeable in 
being so intimate with such a waistcoat; in 
being called Tom, by such a voice ; in being 
on such off-hand terms so soon, with such a 


130 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


pair of whiskers ; that Tom was uncommonly 
pleased with himself. 

“Oh!” 1 don’t care for old Bounderby,” 
said he, “ if you mean that. I have always 
called old Bounderby by the same name, 
when I have talked about him, and I have 
always thought of him in the same way. I am 
not going to begin to be polite now, about old 
Bounderby. It would be rather late in the 
day.” 

“Don’t mind me,” returned James ; “but 
take care when his wife is by, you know.” 

“His wife ?” said Tom. “My sister Loo ? 
0 yes 1 ” And he laughed, and took a little 
more of the cooling drink. 

James Harthouse continued to lounge in the 
same place and attitude, smoking his segar in 
his own easy way, and looking pleasantly at the 
whelp, as if he knew himself to be a kind of 
agreeable demon who had only to hover over 
him, and he must give up his whole soul if re- 
quired. It certainly did seem that the whelp 
yielded to this influence. He looked at his 
companion sneakingly, he looked at him ad- 
miringly, he looked at him boldly, and put up 
one leg on the sofa. 

“My sister Loo?” said Tom. “N/ie never 
cared for old Bounderby.” 

“That’s the past tense, Tom,” returned Mr. 
James Harthouse, striking the ash from his 
cigar with his little finger. “We are in the 
present tense, now.” 

“Verb neuter, not to care. Indicative 
mood, present tense. First person singular, I 
do not care; second person singular, thou dost 
not care; third person singular, she does not 
care,” returned Tom. 

“Good! Very quaint!” said his friend. 
“Though you don’t mean it.” 

“But I do mean it,” cried Tom. “Upon my 
honor! Why, you won’t tell me, Mr. Hart- 
house, that you really suppose my si^er Loo 
does care for old Bounderby.” 

“My dear fellow,” returned the other, “what 
am I bound to suppose, when I find two 
married people living in harmony and happi- 
ness?” 

Tom had by this time got both his legs on 
the sofa. If his second leg had not been al- 
ready there when he was called a dear fellow, 
he would have put it up at that great stage of 
the conversation. Feeling it necessary to do 
something then, he stretched himself out at 
greater length, and, reclining with the back of 
his head on the end of the sofa, and smoking 
with an infinite assumption of negligence, 
turned his common face, and not too sober 
eyes, towards the face looking down upon him 
so carelessly yet so potently. 

“You know our governor, Mr. Harthouse,” 
said Tom, “and therefore you needn’t be sur- 
prised that Loo married old Bounderby. She 
never had a lover, and the governor proposed 
old Bounderby, and she took him.” 

“Very dutiful in your interesting sister,” said 
Mr. James Harthouse. 

“Yes, but she wouldn't have been as dutiful, 


and it would not have come off as easily,” re- 
turned the whelp, “if it hadn’t been for me,” 

Ihe tempter merely lifted his eyebrows; but 
the whelp was obliged to go on. 

“J persuaded her,” he said, with an edifying 
air of superiority. “I was stuck into old 
Bounderby’s bank (where I never wanted to 
be), and I knew I should get into scrapes 
there, if she put old BoundeAy’s pipe out; so 
I told her my wishes, and she came into them. 
She would do anything for me. It was very 
game of her, wasn’t it?” 

“It was charming, Tom!” 

“Not that it was altogether so important to 
her as it was to me,” continued Tom coolly, 
“because my liberty and comfort, and perhaps 
my getting on, depended on it; and she had no 
other lover, and staying at home was like stay- 
ing in jail — especially when I was gone. It 
wasn’t as if she gave up another lover for old 
Bounderby; but still it was a good thing in 
her.” 

“Perfectly delightful. And she gets on so 
placidly.” 

“Oh,” returned Tom, with contemptuous 
patronage, “she’s a regular girl. A girl can 
^et on anywhere. She has settled down to the 
life, and she don’t mind. The life does just as 
well for her, as another. Besides, though Loo 
is a girl, she’s not a common sort of girl. She 
can shut herself up within herself, and think 
— as I have often known her sit and watch the 
fire — for an hour at a stretch.” 

“Ay, ay? Has resources of her own,” said 
Harthouse, smoking quietly. 

“Not so much of that as you may suppose,” 
returned Tom; “for our governor had her 
crammed with all sorts of dry bones and saw- 
dust. It’s his system.” 

“Formed his daughter on his own model ?” 
suggested Harthouse. 

“His daughter ? Ah! and everybody else. 
Why, he formed Me that way,” said Tom. 

“Impossible! ” 

“He did though,” said Tom, shaking hia 
head. “I mean to say, Mr. Harthouse, that 
when I first left home and went to old 
Bounderby’s, I was as flat as a warming-pan, 
and knew no more about life, than any oyster 
does.” 

“Come, Tom 1 I can hardly believe that. A 
joke’s a joke.” 

“Upon my soul!” said the whelp. “I am 
serious; I am indeed!” He smoked with 
great gravity and dignity for a little while, 
and then added, in a highly complacent tone, 
“Oh! I have picked up a little, since. I don’t 
deny that. Bat I have done it myself; no 
thanks to the governor.” 

“And your intelligent sister?” 

“My intelligent sister is about where she 
was. She used to complain to me that she 
had nothing to fall back upon, thatgirls usually 
fall back upon; and I don’t see how she is to 
have got over that since. But she don’t mind,” 
he sagaciously added, puffing at his cigar again. 
“Girls can always get on, somehow. ’’ 


HARD 

^‘Callln^ at the Bank yesterday evening, for 
Mr. Bounderby’s address, I found an ancient 
lady there, who seems to entertain great admi- 
ration for your sister,” observed Mr. James Hart- 
house, throwing away the last small remnant 
of the cigar he had now smoked out. 

“Mother Sparsit?” said Tom. “Whatl you 
have seen her already, have you ?” 

His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar 
out of his mouth, to shut up his eye (which 
had grown rather unmanageable) with the 
greater expression, and to tap his nose several 
time with his finder. 

“Mother Sparsit’s feeling for Loo is more 
than admiration, I should think,” said Tom. 
“Say affection and devotion. Mother Sparsit 
never set her cap at Bounderby when he was 
a bachelor. Oh no 1” 

These were the last words spoken by the 
whelp, before a giddy drowsiness came upon 
him, followed by complete oblivion. He was 
roused from the latter state by an uneasy 
dream of being stirred up with a boot, and 
also of a voice saying: “Come, it’s late. Be 
offl” 

“Well 1” he said, scrambling from the sofa. 
“I must take my leave of you though. I say. 
Yours is very good tobacco. But it’s too 
mild.” 

“Yes, it’s too mild,” returned his enter- 
tainer. 

“It’s — it’s ridiculously mild,” said Tom. 
“Where’s the door ? Good night !” 

He had another odd dream of being taken 
by a waiter through a mist, which, after 
giving him some trouble and difficulty, 
resolved itself into the main street, in 
which he stood alone. He then walked home 
pretty easily, though not yet free from an im- 
pression of the presence and influence of his 
new friend — as if he were lounging somewhere 
in the air, in the same negligent attitude, re- 
garding him with the same look. 

The whelp went home, and went to bed. 
If he had had any sense of what he had done 
that night, and had been less of a whelp and 
more of a brother, he might have turned 
short on the road, might have gone down to 
the ill-smelling river that was dyed black, 
might have gone to bed in it for good and all, 
and have curtained his head for ever with its 
filthy waters. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ Oa my friends, the down-trodden opera- 
tives of Coketown 1 Oh my friends and fellow- 
countrymen, the slaves of an iron-handed and 
a grinding despotism 1 Oh my friends and fel- 
low sufferers, and fellow-workmen, and fellow- 
men 1 I tell you that the hour is come, when 
we must rally round one another as One united 
power, and crumble into dust the oppressors 
that too long have battened upon the plunder 
of our families, upon the sweat of our brows, 
upon the labor of our hands, upon the strength 
of our sinews, upon the God-created glorious 


TIMES. 131 

rights of Humanity, and upon the holy and 
eternal privileges of Brotherhood !” 

“Good!” “Hear, hear, hear!” “Hurrah!” 
and other cries, arose in many voices from va- 
rious parts of the densely crowded and suffoca- 
tingly close Hall, in which the orator, perched 
on a stage, delivered himself of this and what 
other froth and fume he had in him. He had 
declaimed himself into a violent heat, and was 
as hoarse as he was hot. By dint of roaring 
at the top of his voice under a flaring gaslight, 
clenching his fists, knitting his brows, setting 
his teeth, and pounding with his arms, he had 
taken so much out of himself by this time, that 
he was brought to a stop and called for a glass 
of water. 

As he stood there, trying to quench his 
fiery face with his drink of water, the com- 
parison between the orator and the crowd of 
attentive faces turned towards him, was ex- 
tremely to his disadvantage. Judging him 
by Nature’s evidence, he was above the mass 
in very little but the stage on which he stood. 
In many great respects, he was essentially be- 
low them. He was not so honest, he was not 
so manly, he was not so good-humored*, he 
substituted cunning for their simplicity, and 
passion for their safe solid sense. An ill- 
made high-shouldered man, with lowering 
brows, and his features crushed into an 
habitually sour expression, he contrasted 
most unfavorably, even in his mongrel 
dress, with the great body of his hearers in 
their plain working clothes. Strange as it 
always is to consider any assembly in the 
act of submissively resigning itself to the 
dreariness of some complacent person, lord or 
commoner, whom three-fourths of it could, by 
no human means, raise out of the slough of 
inanity to their own intellectual level, it was 
particularly strange, and it was even particu- 
larly affecting, to see this crowd of earnest 
faces, whose honesty in the main no compe- 
tent observer free from bias could doubt, so 
agitated by such a leader. 

Good ! Hear hear ! Hurrah ! The eagerness 
both of attention and intention, exhibited in all 
the countenances, made them a most impres- 
sive sight. There was no carelessness, no Ian- 
guor, no idle curiosity ; none of the many 
shades of indifference to be seen in all other 
assemblies, visible for one moment there. That 
every man felt his condition to be, somehow or 
other, worse than it might be ; that every man 
considered it incumbent on him to join the rest, 
towards the making of it better; that every man 
felt his only hope to be in his allying himself to 
the comrades by whom he was surrounded; 
and that in this belief, right or wrong (un- 
happily wrong then), the whole of that crowd 
were gravely, deeply, faithfully in earnest ; 
must have been as plain to any one who 
chose to see what was there, as the bare 
beams of the roof, and the whitened brick 
walls. Nor could any such spectator fail to 
know in his own breast, that these men, through 
their very delusions, showed great qualities, 


DICKENS’ NEW STOKIES. 


132 

susceptible of being turned to the happiest 
and best account; and that to pretend (on 
the strength of sweeping axioms, howsoever 
cut and dried) that they went astray wholly 
without cause, and of their own irrational 
wills, was to pretend that there could be smoke 
without fire, death without birth, harvest with- 
out seed, anything or everything produced from 
nothing. 

The orator having refreshed himself, wiped 
his corrugated forehead from left to right 
several times with his handkerchief folded into 
a pad, and concentrated all his revived forces 
in a sneer of great disdain and bitterness. 

“ But, oh my friends and brothers 1 Oh 
men and Englishmen, the down-trodden 
operatives of Coketown 1 What shall we 
say of that man — that working man, that 
I should find it necessary so to libel the 
glorious name — who, being practically and 
well acquainted with the grievances and wrongs 
of you, the injured pith and marrow of this land, 
and having heard you, with a noble and majes- 
tic unanimity that will make Tyrants tremble, 
resolve for to subscribe to the funds of the 
United Aggregate Tribunal, and to abide by 
the injunctions issued by that body fur your 
benefit, whatever they may be — what, I ask 
you, will you say of that working man, since 
such I must acknowledge him to be, who, at 
such a time, deserts his post, and sells his 
flag ; who, at such a time, turns a traitor and 
a craven and a recreant ; who, at such a time, 
is not ashamed to make to you the dastardly 
and humiliating avowal that he will hold him- 
self aloof, and will not be one of those asso- 
ciated in the gallant stand for Freedom and 
for Right ?” 

The assembly was divided at this point. — 
There were some groans and hisses, but the 
general sense of honor was much too strong 
for the condemnation of a man unheard. “Be 
sure you’re right, Slackbridge I” “Put him 
up !” “Let’s hear him !” Such things were 
said on many sides. Finally, one strong voice 
called out, “Is the man heer ? If the man’s 
heer, Slackbridge, let’s hear the man himseln, 
’stead o’ yo.” Which was received with a round 
of applause. 

Slackbridge, the orator, looked about him 
with a withering smile ; and, holding out his 
right hand at arm’s length (as the manner of 
all Slackbridges is), to still the thundering sea, 
waited until there was a profound silence. 

“Oh my friends and fellow men,” said Slack- 
bridge then, shaking his head with violent 
scorn, “I do not wonder that you, the pros- 
trate sons of labor, are incredulous of the ex- 
istence of such a man. But he who sold his 
birth-right for a mess ot pottage existed, and 
Judas Iscariot existed, and Castlereagh ex- 
isted, and this man exists 1” 

Here, a brief press and confusion near the 
stage, ended in the man himself standing at 
the orator’s side before the concourse. He 
was pale and a little moved in the face — his 
lips especially showed it ; but he stood quiet, 


with his left hand at his chin, waiting to b« 
heard. There was a chairman to regulate the 
proceedings, and this functionary now took 
the case into his own hands. 

“My friends,” said he, “by virtue o’my of- 
fice as your president, I askes o’ our friend 
Slackbridge, who may be a little over better 
in this business, to take his seat, whiles this 
man Stephen Blackpool is heern. You all 
know this man Stephen Blackpool. You know 
him awlung o’ his misfort’ns, and his good 
name.” 

With that the chairman shook him frankly 
by the hand, and sat down again. Slack- 
bridge likewise sat down, wiping his hot fore- 
head — always from left to right, and never the 
reverse way. 

“ My friends,” Stephen began, in the midst 
of a dead calm ; “I ha’ herd what’s been spok’n 
o’ me, and ’tis lickly that I shan’t mend it. 
But I’d liefer you ’d hearn the truth concernin 
myseln, fro my lips than fro onny other man’s, 
though I never cud’n speak afore so monny, 
wi’out bein moydert and muddled.” 

Slackbridge shook his head as if he would 
shake it off, in his bitterness. 

“I ’m th’ one single Hand in Bounderby’s 
mill, o’ a’ the men theer, as don’t caoom in wi’ 
th’ proposed reg’lations. I canna’ coom in wi’ 
’em. My friends, I doubt their doin’ yo onny 
good. Licker they’ll do yo hurt.” 

Slackbridge laughed, folded his arms, and 
frowned sarcastically. 

“ But ’t ant sommuch for that as I stands 
out. If that were aw, I’d coom in wi’ th’ rest 
But I ha’ my reasons — mine, yo see — for 
being hindered ; not on’y now, but awlus — 
awlus — life long 1” 

Slackbridge jumped up and stood beside 
him, gnashing and tearing. “Oh my friends, 
what but this did I tell you ? Oh my fellow- 
countrymen, what warning but this did I give 
you? And how shows this recreant conduct 
in a man on whom unequal laws are known 
to have fallen heavy? Oh you Englishmen, 
I ask you how does this subornation show in 
one of yourselves, who is thus consenting to 
his own undoing and to yours, and to your 
children’s and your children’s children’s?” 

There was some applause, and some cry- 
ing of Shame upon the man ; but the greater 
part of the audience were quiet. They looked at 
Stephen’s worn face, rendered more pathetic 
by the homely emotions it evinced; and, in the 
kindness of their nature, they were more sorry 
than indignant. 

“’Tis this Delegate’s trade for t’ speak,” 
said Stephen, “an he’s paid for’t, an he 
knows his work. Let him keep to’t. Let him 
give no heed to what I ha had’n to bear. That’s 
not for him. That’s not for nobbody but me.” 

There was a propriety, not to say a dignity 
in these words, that made the hearers yet 
more quiet and attentive. The same strong 
voice called out, “Slackbridge, let the man be 
heern, and howd thee tongue!” Then the 
place was wonderfully still. 


HARD 

‘‘My brothers,” said Stephen, whose low 
voice was distinctly heard, “and my fellow- 
workmen — for that JO are to me, though not, 
as I knows on, to this delegate heer — I ha but 
a word to sen, and I could sen nommore if I 
was to speak till Strike o’ day. I know weel 
aw what’s afore me. I know weel that yo are 
aw resolved to ha nommore ado wi’ a man who 
is not wi’ yo in this matther. I know weel 
that if I was a lying parisht i’ th’ road,'yo’d 
feel it right to pass me by as a forrenner and 
stranger. What I ha getn, I mun mak th’ 
best on.” 

“Stephen Blackpool,” said the chairman, 
rising, “think on’t again. Think on’t once 
agen, lad, afore thour’t shunned by aw owd 
friends.” 

There was an universal murmur to the 
same effect, though no man articulated a 
word. Every eye was fixed on Stephen’s face. 
To repent of his determination, would be to 
take a load from all their minds. He looked 
around him, and knew that it was so. Not a 
grain of anger with them was in his heart ; he 
knew them, far below their surface weaknesses 
and misconceptions, as no one but their fellow 
laborer could. 

“I ha thowt on’t, above a bit, sir. I sim- 
ply canna coom in. I mun go th’ way as 
lays afore me. I mun tak my leave o’ aw 
heer.” 

He made a sort of reverence to them by 
holding up his arms, and stood for the mo- 
ment in that attitude; not speaking until they 
slowly dropped at his sides. 

“Monny’s the pleasant word as soom heer 
has spok’n wi’ me; monny’s the face I see heer, 
as I first seen when I were yoong and lighter 
heart’n than now. I ha never had no fratch 
afore, sin ever I were born, wi’ any o’ my like; 
Gonuows I ha’ none now that’s o’ my makin’. 
Yo’ll ca’ me traitor and that — yo, 1 mean t’ 
say,” addressing Slackbridge, “but ’tis easier 
to ca’ than mak’ out. So let be.” 

He had moved away a pace or two to come 
down from the platform, when he remembered 
something he had not said, and returned again. 

“Haply,” he said, turning his furrowed 
face slowly about, that he might as it were 
individually address the whole audience, those 
both near and distant; “haply, when this ques- 
tion has been tak’n up and discoosed, there’ll 
be a threat to turn out if I’m let to work 
among yo. I hope I shall die ere ever such a 
time cooms, and I shall work solitary among 
yo unless it cooms — truly, I mun do’t, my 
friends; not to brave yo, but to live. I ha 
nobbut work to live by ; and wheerever can I 
go, I who ha worked sin I were no heighth at 
aw, in Coketown heer? I mak’ no complaints 
o’ bein turned to the wa’, o’ being outcasten 
and overlooken fro this time forrard, but I 
hope 1 shall be let to work. If there is any 
right for me at aw, my friends, I think ’tis 
that.” 

Not a word was spoken. Not a sound was 
audible in the building, but the slight rustle 


TIMES. 133 

of men moving a little apart, all along the 
centre of the room, to open a means of passing 
out, to the man with whom they had all bound 
themselves to renounce companionship. Look- 
ing at no one, and going his way with a lowly 
steadiness upon him that asserted nothing and 
sought nothing. Old Stephen, with all his 
troubles on his head, left the scene. 

Then Slackbridge, who had kept his 
oratorical arm extended during the going 
out, as if he were repressing with infinite 
solicitude and by a wonderful moral power 
the vehement passions of the multitude, 
applied himself to raising their spirits. Had 
not the Roman Brutus, oh my British country- 
men, condemned his son to death; and had not 
the Spartan mothers, oh my soon to be victo- 
rious friends, driven their flying children on 
the points of their enemies’ swords ? Then 
was it not the sacred duty of the men of Coke- 
town, with forefathers before them, an admir- 
ing world in company with them, and a pos- 
terity to come after them, to hurl out traitors 
from the tents they had pitched in a sacred 
and a Godlike cause ? The winds of Heaven 
anwered Yes ; and bore Yes, east, west, north 
and south. And consequently three cheers for 
the United Aggregate Tribunal! 

Slackbridge acted as fugleman, and gave 
the time. The multitude of doubtful faces 
(a little conscience stricken) brightened at the 
sound, and took it up. Private feeling must 
yield to the common cause. Hurrah 1 The 
roof yet vibrated with the cheering when the 
assembly dispersed. 

Thus easily did Stephen Blackpool fall into 
the loneliest of lives, the life of solitude 
among a familiar crowd. The stranger in 
the land who looks into ten thousand faces 
for some answering look and never finds it, is 
in cheering society as compared with him 
who passes ten averted faces daily, that were 
once the countenances of friends. Such ex- 
perience was to be Stephen’s now, in every 
waking moment of his life ; at his work, on 
his way to it and from it, at his door, at his 
window, everywhere. By general consent, 
they even avoided that side of the street on 
which he habitually walked ; and left it, of all 
the working men, to him only. 

He had been for many years, a quiet, silent 
man, associating but little with other men, 
and used to companionship with his own 
thoughts. He had never known before, the 
strength of the want in his heart for the fre- 
quent recognition of a nod, a look, a word ; 
or the immense amount of relief that had 
beoc poureu mto it by drops, through such 
small means. It was even harder than he 
could have believed possible, to separate in 
his own conscience his abandonment by all 
his fellows, from a baseless sense of shame and 
disgrace. 

The first four days of his endurance were 
days so long and heavy, that he began to be 
appalled by the prospect before h.in. '^ot 
only did he see no Rachael all the time, but 


134 


DICKENS’ NEW STOKIES. 


he avoided every chance of seeing her; for, 
although he knew that the prohibition did 
not yet formally extend to the women working 
in the factories, he found that some of them 
"v^ith whom he was acquainted were changed to 
him, and he feared to try others, and dreaded 
that Rachael might be even singled out from the 
rest if she were seen in his company. So, he 
had been quite alone during the four days, and 
had spoken to no one, when, as he was leaving 
his work at night, a young man of a very light 
. complexion accosted him in the street. 

“Your name’s Blackpool, ain’t it?” said the 
■<^oung man. 

Stephen colored to find himself with his hat 
in his hand, in his gratitude for being spoken 
to, or in the suddenness of it, or both. He 
made a feint of adjusting the lining, and said, 
“Yes.” 

“ You are the Hand they have sent to Co- 
ventry, I mean?” said Bitzer, the very light 
young man in question. 

Stephen answered “ Yes,” again. 

“ I supposed so, from their all appearing to 
keep away from you. Mr. Bounder by wants 
to speak to you. You know his house, don’t 
you?” 

Stephen said “ Yes,” again. 

“ Then go straight up there, will you ? ” 
said Bitzer. “You’re expected, and have 
only to tell the servant it’s you. I belong to 
the Bank ; so, if you go straight up without 
me (I was sent to fetch you), you’ll save me a 
walk.” 

Stephen, whose way had been in the con- 
trary direction, turned about, and betook 
himself as in duty bound, to the red brick 
castle of the giant Bounderby. 


CHAPTER XXL 

“Well Stephen,” said Bounderby, in his 
windy manner, “ what’s this I hear ? What 
have these pests of the earth been doing to 
you ? Come in, and speak up.” 

It was into the drawing-room that he was 
thus bidden. A tea-table was set out ; and 
Mr. Bounderby’s young wife, and her brother, 
and a great gentleman from London, were 
present. To whom Stephen made his obeisance, 
closing the door and standing near it, with his 
hat in his hand. 

“ This is the man I was telling you about, 
Harthouse,” said Mr. Bounderby. The gen- 
tleman he addressed, who was talking to Mrs. 
Bounderby on the sofa, got up, saying in an 
indolent way, “ Oh really ?” and dawdled to 
the hearthrug where Mr. Bounderby stood. 

“ Now,” said Bounderby, “ speak up !” 

After the four days he had passed, this 
address fell rudely and discordantly on 
Stephen’s ear. Besides being a rough hand- 
ling of his wounded mind, it seemed to 
assume that he really was the self-interested 
deserter he had been called. 

“What were it, sir,” said Stephen, “as yo 
were pleased to want wi’ me?” 


“Why, I have told you,” returned Bounder- 
by. “Speak up like a man, since you are a 
man, and tell us about yourself and this Com- 
bination.” 

“Wi’ yor pardon, sir,” said Stephen Black- 
pool, “I ha’ nowt to sen about it.” 

Mr. Bounderby, who was always more or 
less like a Wind, finding something in his way 
here, began to blow at it directly. 

“Now, look here, Harthouse,” said he, 
“here’s a specimen of ’em. When this man 
was here once before, I warned this man against 
the mischievous strangers who are always 
about — and who ought to be hanged wherever 
they are found — and I told this man that he 
was going in the wrong direction. Now, 
would you believe it, that although they have 
put this mark upon him, he is such a slave to 
them still, that he’s afraid to open his lips 
about them?” 

“I sed as I had nowt to sen, sir ; not as I 
was fearfo’ o’ openin’ my lips.” 

“You said. Ah I I know what you said; 
more than that, I know what you mean, you 
see. Not always the same thing, by the 
Lord Harry I Quite different things. You 
had better tell us at once, that that fellow 
Slackbridge is not in the town, stirring up the 
people to mutiny; and that he is not a regular 
qualified leader of the people ; that is, a most 
confounded scoundrel. You had better tell us 
so at once; you can’t deceive me. You want 
to tell us so. Why don’t you?” 

“I’m as sooary as yo, sir, when the people’s 
leaders is bad,” said Stephen, shaking his 
head. “They taks such as offers. Haply ’tis 
na’ the sma’est o’ their misfortuns when they 
can get no better.” 

The wind began to be boisterous. 

“Now, you’ll think this pretty well, Hart- 
house,” said Mr. Bounderby. “You’ll think 
thia tolerably strong. You’ll say, upon my soul 
this is a tidy specimen of what my friends 
have to deal with; but this is nothing, sir! 
You shall hear me ask this man a question. 
Pray, Mr. Blackpool” — wind springing up 
very fast — “may I take the liberty of asking 
you how it happens that you refused to be in 
this Combination?” 

“How ’t happens?” 

“Ah !” said Mr. Bounderby, with his thumbs 
in the arms of his coat, and jerking his head 
and shutting his eyes in confidence with the 
opposite wall: “how it happens.” 

“I’d leefer not coom to’t, sir; but sin you 
put th’ question — an not want’n t’ be ill- 
manner’n — I’ll answer. I ha passed a pro- 
mess.’ ’ 

“Not to me, you know,” said Bounderby. 
(Gusty weather with deceitful calms. One 
now prevailing.) 

“0 no, sir. Not to yo.” 

“As for me, any consideration for me has 
had just nothing at all to do with it,” said 
Bounderby, still in confidence with the wall. 
“If only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown had 


135 


HARD TIMES. 


been in question, you would have joined and 
made no bones about it?” 

“Why yes, sir. ’Tis true.” 

“Though he knows,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
now blowing a gale, “that these are a set of 
rascals and rebels whom transportation is too 
good for 1 Now, Mr. Harthouse, you have 
been knocking about in the world some time. 
Did you ever meet with anything like that 
man out of this blessed country ?” And Mr. 
Bounderby pointed him out for inspection, 
with an angry finger. 

“Nay, ma’am,” said Stephen Blackpool, 
staunchly protesting against the words that 
had been used, and instinctively addressing 
himself to Louisa, after glancing at her face. 
“Not rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o’ th’ 
kind, ma’am, nowt o’ th’ kind. They’ve not 
doon me a kindness, ma’am, as I know and 
feel. But there’s not a dozen men amoong 
’em, ma’am — a dozenl Not six — but what be- 
lieves as he has doon his duty by the rest and 
by himseln. God forbid as I, that ha known 
an had’n experience o’ these men aw my life — 
I, that ha’ ett’n an droonken wi’ em, an seet’n 
wi’ em, an toil’n wi’ em, and lov’n ’em, should 
fail fur to stan by ’em wi’ the truth, let ’em ha 
doon to me what they may 1” 

He spoke with the rugged earnestness of 
his place and character — deepened, perhaps, 
by a proud consciousness that he was faithful 
to his class under all their mistrust; but he 
fully remembered where he was, and did not 
even raise his voice. 

“No, ma’am, no. They’re true to one an- 
other, faithfo’ to one another, fectionate to one 
another, e’en to death. Be poor among ’em, 
be sick among ’em, grieve amoong ’em for 
onny o’ th’ monny causes that carries grief 
to the poor man’s door, an they’ll be tender 
wi’ yo, gentle wi’ yo, comfortable wi’ yo, Chri- 
sen wi’ yo. Be sure o’ that, ma’am. They’d 
be riven to bits, ere ever they’d be different.” 

“In short,” said Mr. Bounderby, “it’s be- 
cause they are so full of vrtues that they have 
turned you adrift. Go through with it while 
you are about it. Out with it.” 

“How ’tis, ma’am,” resumed Stephen, ap- 
pearing still to find his natural refuge in 
Louisa’s face, “that what is best in us fok, 
seems to turns us most to trouble an misfort’n, 
an mistake, I dunno. But ’tis so. 1 know 
’tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint 
the smoke. We ’re patient too, an wants in 
general to do right. An’ I canna think the 
fawt is aw wi’ us.” 

“Now, my friend,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
whom he could not have exasperated more, 
quite unconscious of it though he was, than by 
seeming to appeal to any one else, “if you will 
favor me with your attention for half a minute, 
I should like to have a word or two with you. 
You said just now, that you had nothing to tell 
us about this business. You are quite sure of 
that, before we go any further?” 

“Sir, I am sure on’t.” 

“Here’s a gentleman from London present,” 


Mr. Bounderby made a back-handed point at 
Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, “a Par- 
liament gentleman. I should like him to hear 
a short bit of dialogue between you and me, 
instead of taking the substance of it — for I 
know precious well, beforehand, what it will 
be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! 
— instead of receiving it on trust, from my 
mouth.” 

Stephen bent his head to the gentleman 
from London, and showed a rather more 
troubled mind than usual. He turned his 
eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but 
at a look from that quarter (expressive though 
instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Boun- 
derby’s face. 

“Now, what do you complain of?” spake 
Mr. Bounderby. 

“I ha’ not coom heer, sir,” Stephen re- 
minded him, “to complain. I coom for that 
I were sent for.” 

“What,” repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding 
his arms, “do you people, in a general way, 
complain of?” 

Stephen looked at him with some little irre- 
solution for a moment, and then seemed to 
make up his mind. 

“ Sir, I were never good at showin o’t, 
though I ha had’n my share in feeling o’t. 
’Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round 
town — so rich as ’tis — and see th’ numbers o’ 
people as has been broughten into bein heer, 
fur to weave, an to card, and to piece out a 
livin, aw the same one way, somehows, 
twixt their crad.es an their graves. Look 
how we live, an wheer we live, an in what 
numbers, an by what chances, and wi’ what 
sameness ; and look how the mills is awlus a 
goin, an how they never works us no nigher to 
onny dis’ant object — ceptin awlus. Death. — 
Look how you considers of us, an writes of us, 
an talks of us, and goes up wi’ yor deputations 
to Secretaries o’ State ’bout us, and how yo are 
awlus right, an how we are awlus wrong, and 
never had’n no reason in us sin ever we were 
born. Look how this ha growen and growen, 
sir, bigger an bigger, broader an broader, harder 
an harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto 
generation. Who can look on’t sir, and fairly 
tell a man ’tis not a muddle ? ” 

“Of course,” said Mr. Bounderby. “Now 
perhaps you’ll let the gentleman know, how 
you would set this muddle (as you’re so fund 
of calling it) to rights.” 

“I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to’t. 
’Tis not me as should be looken to for that, 
sir. ’Tis them as is put ower me, an ower aw 
the rest of us. What do they tak upon them- 
sen, sir, if not to do’t ?” 

“I’ll tell you something towards it, at any 
rate,” returned Mr. Bounderby. “We will 
make an example of half a dozen Slack- 
bridges. We’ll indict the blackguards for 
felony, and get ’em shipped off to penal set- 
tlements.” 

Stephen gravely shook his head. 

“Don’t tell me we won’t, man,” said Mr. Boun- 


DICKENS* NEW STOKIES. 


136 

derby, by this time blowing a hurricane, “be- 
cause we will, I tell you 1” 

“Sir,” returned Stephen, with the quiet con- 
fidence of absolute certainty, “if yo was t’ tak 
a hundred Slackbridges — aw as there is, 
an aw the number ten times towd — an 
was t’ sew ’em up in separate sacks, an 
sink ’em in the deepest ocean as were made 
ere ever dry land coom to be, yo’d leave the 
muddle just wheer ’tis. Mischeevous stran- 
gers 1” said Stephen, with an anxious smile ; 
“when ha we not heern, I am sure, sin ever we 
can call to mind, o’ th’ mischeevous strangers ! 
’Tis not by them the trouble’s made, sir. ’Tis 
not wi’ them ’t commences. I ha no favor for 
’em — I ha no reason to favor ’em — but ’tis 
hopeless an useless to dream o’ takin them fro 
their trade, ’stead o’ takin their trade fro 
them 1 Aw that’s now about me in this room 
were heer afore I coom, an will be heer when 
I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an 
pack it off to Norfolk Island, an the time will 
go on just the same. So ’tis wi’ Slackbridge 
every bit.” 

Reverting for a moment to his former re- 
fuge, he observed a cautionary movement of 
her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he 
put his hand upon the lock. But, he had not 
spoken out of his own will and desire ; and he 
felt it in his heart a noble return for his late 
injurious treatment, to be faithful to the last to 
those who had repudiated him. He stayed to 
finish what was in his mind. 

“Sir, I canna, wi’ my little learning an my 
common way, tell the genelman what will 
better aw this — though some working-men o’ 
this town could, above my powers — but I can 
tell him what I know will never do’t. The 
strong hand will never do’t. Vict’ry and 
triumph will never do’t. Agreein fur to mak 
one side unnat’rally awlus and for ever right, 
and toother side unnat’rally awlus and for ever 
wrong, will never, never do’t. Nor yet lettin 
alone will never do’t. Let thousands upon 
thousands alone, aw 'leadin the like lives 
and aw faw’en into the like muddle, and they 
will be as one, an yo will be as anoother, wi’ a 
black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as long 
or short a time as sitch like misery can last. 
Not drawin nigh to fok, wi’ kindness an 
patience an cheery ways, that so draws nigh to 
one another in their monny troubles, and so 
cherishes one another in their distresses wi’ 
what they need themseln — like, I humbly be- 
lieve, as no people the gentleman ha seen in 
aw his travels can beat — will never do’t till 
th’ Sun turns t’ ice. Last o’ aw, jatin ’em as 
so much Power, and reg’latin ’em as if they 
was figures in a soom, or machines; wi’out 
loves and likeins, wi’out memories and in- 
clinations, wi’out souls to weary an souls to 
•hope — when aw goes quiet, draggin on wi’ 
’em as if they’d nowt o’ th’ kind, an when 
aw goes onquiet, reproaching ’em fur their 
want o' sitch humanly feelins in their dealins 
'wi’ yo — this will never do’t, sir, till God’s 
work is onmade.” 


Stephen stood with the open door in his 
hand, waiting to know if anything more were 
expected of him. 

“Just stop a moment,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
excessively red in the face. “I told you, the 
last time you were here with a grievance, 
that you had better turn about and come 
out of that. And I also told you, if you 
remember, that I was up to the gold spoon 
look-out.” 

“I were not up to’t myseln, sir ; I do assure 
yo.” 

“Now, it’s clear to me,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
“that you are one of those chaps who have 
always got a grievance. And you go about, 
sowing it and raising crops. That’s the busi- 
ness of your life, my friend.” 

Stephen shook his head, mutely protesting 
that indeed he had other business to do for his 
life. 

“You are such a waspish, raspish, ill-con- 
ditioned chap, you see,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
“that even your own Union, the men who 
know you best, will have nothing to do with 
you. I never thought those fellows could be 
right in anything; but I tell you what! I so 
far go along with them for a novelty, that J’ll 
have nothing to do with you either.” 

Stephen raised his eyes quickly to his face. 

“You can finish off what you’re at,” said Mr. 
Bounderby, with a meaning nod, “and then go 
elsewhere.” 

“Sir, yo know weel,” said Stephen expres- 
sively, “that if I canna get work wi’ yo, I canna 
get it elsewheer.” 

The reply was, “What I know, I know; and 
what you know, you know. I have no more to 
say about it.” 

Stephen glanced at Louisa again, but her 
eyes were raised to his no more; therefore, 
with a sigh, and saying, barely above his 
breath, “Heaven help us aw in this world 1” he 
departed. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

It was falling dark when Stephen came out 
of Mr. Bounderby’s house. The shadows of 
night had gathered so fast, that he did not 
look about him when he closed the door, but 
plodded straight along the street. Nothing 
was further firom his thoughts than the curious 
old woman he had encountered on his previous 
visit to the same house, when he heard a step 
behind him that he knew, and, turning, saw 
her in Rachael’s company. 

He saw Rachael first, as he had heard her 
only. 

“Ah, Rachael, my dear I Missus, thou wi’ 
her!” 

“Well, and now you are surprised to be 
sure, and with reason I must say,” the old 
woman returned. “Here I am again, you 
see.” 

“But how wi’ Rachael ?” said Stephen, fall- 
ing into their step, walking between them, and 
looking from the one to the other. 


HARD TIMEtS. 


“ Why, I come to be with this good lass 
pretty much as I came to be with you,” said 
the old woman cheerfully, taking the reply 
upon herself. My visiting time is later this 
year than usual, for I have been rather 
troubled with shortness of breath, and so put 
it off till the weather was fine and warm. For 
the same reason I don’t make all my journey 
in one day, but divide it into two days, and 
get a bed to-night at the Travellers’ Coffee 
House down by the railroad, (a nice clean 
house,) and go back, Parliamentary, at six 
in the morning. Well, but what has this to 
do with this good lass, says you? I’m going 
to tell you. I have heard of Mr. Bounderby 
being married. I read it in the paper, where 
it looked grand — oh, it looked tine!” the 
old woman dwelt on it with strange enthu- 
siasm ; ^‘and I want to see his wife. I have 
never seen her yet. Now, if you’ll believe 
me, she hasn’t come out of that house since 
noon to-day. So, not to give her up too 
easily, I was waiting about, a little last bit 
more, when I passed close to this good lass 
two or three times ; and her face being so 
friendly I spoke to her, and she spoke to me. 
There I” said the old woman to Stephen, 
“you can make all the rest out for yourself 
now, a deal shorter than I can, I dare say 1” 

Once again, Stephen had to conquer an in- 
stinctive propensity to dislike this old woman, 
though her manner was as honest and simple 
as a manner possibly could be. With a gen- 
tleness that was as natural to him as he knew 
it to be to Rachael, he pursued the subject that 
interested her in her old age. 

“Well, missus,” said he, “I ha seen the lady, 
and she were yoong and hansom. Wi’ fine 
dark thinkin eyes, and a still way, Rachael, as 
1 ha never seen the like on.” 

“Young and handsome. Yes!” cried the 
old woman, quite delighted. “As bonny as a 
rose! And what a happy wife!” 

“Aye, missus, I suppose she be,” said 
Stephen. But with a doubtful glance at 
Kachael. 

“Suppose she be? She must be. She’s 
your master’s wife,” returned the old woman. 

Stephen nodded assent. “Though as to 
master,” said he, glancing again at Rachael, 
“not master onny more. That’s aw enden 
twixt him and me.” 

“Have you left his work, Stephen?” asked 
Rachael, anxiously and quickly. 

“Why, Rachael,” he replied, “whether I ha 
left’n his work, or whether his work ha left’n 
me, cooms t’ th’ same. His work and me are 
parted. ’Tis as weel so— better, I were 
thinkin when yo coom up wi’ me. It would ha 
brought’n trouble upon trouble if I had stayed 
theer. Haply ’tis a kindness to monny that 
I go; haply ’tis a kindness to myseln ; anyways 
it mun be done. I mun turn my face fro Coke- 
town fur th’ time, an seek a fort’n, dear, by 
beginnin fresh.” 

“Where will you go, Stephen?” 

“I donno t’night,” said he, lifting off his hat. 


137 

and smoothing his thin hair with the flat of his 
hand. “But I’m not a goin’ t’night, Rachael ; 
nor yet t’ morrow. Tan’t easy overmuch, t’ 
know wheer t’ turn, but a good heart will coom 
to me.” 

Herein, too, the sense of even thinking un- 
selfishly aided him. Before he had so much as 
closed Mr. Bounderby’s door, he had reflected 
that at least his being obliged to go away was 
good for her, as it would save her from the 
chance of being brought into question for 
not withdrawing from him. Though it would 
cost him a hard pang to leave her, and 
though he could think of no similar place in 
which his condemnation would not pursue 
him, perhaps it was almost a relief to be forced 
away from the endurance of the last four days, 
even to unknown difficulties and distresses. 

So he said, with truth, “I’m more leetsome 
Rachael, under ’t, than I couldn ha believed.” 
It was not her part to make his burden heavier. 
She answered with her comforting smile, and 
the three walked on together. 

Age, especially when it strives to be self- 
reliant and cheerful, finds much consideration 
among the poor. The old woman was so 
decent and contented, and made so light of 
her infirmities, though they had increased upon 
her since her former interview with Stephen, 
that they both took an interest in her. She 
was too sprightly to allow of their walking at 
a slow pace on her account, but she was very 
grateful to be talked to, and very willing to 
talk to any extent : so, when they came to 
their part of the town, she was more brisk and 
vivacious than ever. 

“Coom to my poor place, missus,” said 
Stephen, “and tak a coop o’ tea. Rachael 
will coom then, and arterwards I’ll see thee 
safe t’ thy Travellers’ lodgin. ’T may be long, 
Rachael, ere ever I ha th’ chance o’ thy coom- 
pany agen.” 

They complied, and the three went on to 
the house where he lodged. When they 
turned into the narrow street, Stephen glanced 
at his window with a dread that always haunt- 
ed his desolate home ; but it was open, as he 
had left it, and no one was there. The evil 
spirit of his life had flitted away again, months 
ago, and he had heard no more of her since. 
The only evidences of her last return now, were 
the scantier movables in his room, and the 
grayer hair upon his head. 

He lighted a candle, set out his little tea- 
board, got hot water from below, and brought 
in small portions of tea and sugar, a loaf, and 
some butter, from the nearest shop. The bread 
was new and crusty, the butter fresh, and 
the sugar lump, of course — in fulfilment of 
the standard testimony of the Coketown 
magnates, that these people lived like princes, 
sir. Rachael made the tea (so large a party 
necessitated the borrowing of a cup), and 
the visiter enjoyed it mightily. It was the 
first glimpse of sociality the host had had for 
many days. He too, with the world a wide 
heath before him, enjoyed the meal — again in 


138 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


corroboration of tbe magnates, as exemplify- 
ing the utter want of calculation on the part 
of these people, sir. 

“I ha never thowt yet, missus,” said Stephen, 
“o’ askin thy name.” 

The old lady announced herself as “Mrs. 
Pegler.” 

“A widder, I think ?” said Stephen. 

“Oh, many long years 1” Mrs. Pegler’s 
husband (one of the best on record) was 
already dead, by Mrs. Pegler’s calculation, 
when Stephen was born. 

“’Twere a bad job too, to lose so goodaone,” 
said Stephen. “Onny children ?” 

Mrs. Pegler’s cup, rattling against her saucer 
as she held it, denoted some nervousness on 
her part. “No,” she said. “Not now, not 
now.” 

“Dead, Stephen,” Rachael softly hinted. 

“I’m sooary I ha spok’n on’t,” said Stephen. 
“I ought t’ ha hadn in my mind as I might 
touch a sore place. I — I blame myseln.” 

While he excused himself, the old lady’s 
cup rattled more and more. “1 had a son,” 
she said, curiously distressed, and not by any 
of the usual appearances of sorrow; “and he 
did well, wonderfully well. But he is not to 

be spoken of if you please. He is ” 

Putting down her cup, she moved her hands 
as if she would have added, by her action, 
“ dead 1” Then, she said, aloud, “ I have lost 
him.” 

Stephen had not yet got the better of his 
having given the old lady pain, when his land- 
lady came stumbling up the narrow stairs, and 
calling him to the door, whispered in his ear. 
Mrs. Pegler was by no means deaf, for she 
caught a word as it was uttered. 

Bounderby I” she cried, in a suppressed 
voice, starting up Irom the table. “ Oh, hide 
me! Don’t let me be seen for the world. — 
Don’t let him come up till I have got away. 
Pray, pray 1” She trembled, and was exces- 
sively agitated ; getting behind Rachael, when 
Rachael tried to reassure her ; and not seem- 
ing to know what she was about. 

“ But hearken, missus, hearken said 
Stephen, astonished, “ ’Tisnt Mr. Bounderby ; 
’tis his wife. Yor not fearfo’ o’ her. Yo was 
hey-go-mad about her, but an hour sin.” 

“ But are you sure it’s the lady and not the 
gentleman ?” she asked, still trembling. 

“ Certain sure !” 

“ Well then, pray don’t speak to me, nor yet 
take any notice of me,” said the old woman. 
“Let me be quite to myself in this corner.” 

Stephen nodded ; looking to Rachael for an 
explanation, which she was quite unable to 
give him ; took the candle, went down stairs, 
and in a few moments returned, lighting 
Louisa into the room. She was followed by 
the whelp. 

Rachael had risen, and stood apart with 
her shawl and bonnet in her hand, when 
Stephen, himself profoundly astonished by 
this visit, put the candle on the table. Then 


he too stood, with his doubled hand upon the 
table near it, waiting to be addressed. 

For the first time in her life, Louisa had 
come into one of the dwellings of the Coke- 
town Hands ; for the first time in her life, 
she was face to face with anything 
like individuality in connexion with them. 
She knew of their existence by hundreds 
and by thousands. She knew what results in 
work a given number of them would produce, 
in a given space of time. She knew them in 
crowds passing to and from their nests, like 
ants or beetles. But she knew from her read- 
ing infinitely more of the ways of toiling in- 
sects, than of these toiling men and women. 

Something to be worked so much and paid 
so much, and there ended; something to be 
infallibly settled by laws of supply and de- 
mand ; something that blundered against 
those laws, and floundered into difficulty ; 
something that was a little pinched when 
wheat was dear, and over-rate itself when 
wheat was cheap ; something that increased 
at such a rate of per centage, and yielded such 
another per centage of crime, and such 
another per centage of pauperism ; something 
wholesale, of which vast fortunes were made ; 
something that occasionally rose like a sea, and 
did some harm and waste (chiefly to itself), 
and fell again ; this she knew the Coketown 
Hands to be. But, she had scarcely thought 
more of separating them into units, than of 
separating the sea itself into its component 
drops. 

She stood for some moments looking round 
the room. From the few chairs, the few 
books, the common prints, and the bed, she 
glanced to the two women, and to Stephen. 

“ I have come to speak to you, in conse- 
quence of what passed just now. I should 
like to be serviceable to you, if you will let 
me. Is this your wife ? ” 

Rachael raised her eyes, and they sufficiently 
answered no. and dropped again. 

“I remember,” said Louisa, reddening at 
her mistake; “I recollect, now, to have heard 
your domestic misfortunes spoken of, though 
I was not attending to the particulars at the 
time. It was not my meaning to ask a ques- 
tion that would give pain to any one here. If 
I should ask any other question that may hap- 
pen to have that result, give me credit, if you 
please, for being in ignorance how to speak to 
you as I ought.” 

As Stephen had but a little while ago in- 
stinctively addressed himself to her, so she now 
instinctively addressed herself to Rachael. 
Her manner was short and abrupt, yet falter- 
ing and timid. 

“He has told you what has passed between 
himself and my husband? You would be his 
first resource, I think.” 

“I have heard the end of it, young lady,” 
said Rachael. 

“Did I understand, that, being rejected by 
one employer, he would probably be rejected 
by all? I thought he said as much?” 


HARD 

*‘Tlie cliances are very small, young lady — 
next to nothing — for a man who gets a bad 
name among them.” 

What shall I understand that you mean by 
a bad name?” 

‘‘The name of being troublesome.” 

“Then, by the prejudices of his own class, 
and by the prejudices of the other, he is sacri- 
ficed alike? Are the two so deeply sepa- 
rated in this town, that there is no place 
whatever, for an honest workman between 
them ?” 

Rachael shook her head in silence. 

^ “He fell into suspicion,” said Louisa, “with 
his fellow-weavers, because he had made a 
promise not to be one of them. I think it 
must have been to you that he made that pro- 
mise. Might I ask you why he made it?” 

Rachael burst into tears. “I didn’t seek" it 
of him, poor lad. I prayed him to avoid trou- 
ble for his own good, little thinking he’d come 
to it through me. But I know he’d die a hun- 
dred deaths, ere ever he’d break his word. I 
know that of him well.” 

Stephen had remained quietly attentive, in 
his usual thoughtful attitude, with his hand 
at his chin. He now spoke in a voice rather 
less steady than usual. 

“No one, excepting myseln, can ever know 
what honor, an what love, an respect, I bear 
to Rachael, or wi’ what cause. When I passed 
that promess, I towd her true, she were th’ 
Angel o’ my life. ’Twere a solemn promess. 
’Tis gone fro me, fur ever.” 

Louisa turned her head to him, and bent it 
with a deference that was new in her. She 
looked from him to Rachael, and her features 
softened. “What will you do?” she asked 
him. And her voice had softened too. 

“Weel, maam,” said Stephen, making the 
best of it, with a smile ; “when I ha finished 
off, I mun quit this part, an try another. Fort- 
net or misfortnet, a man can but try; there’s 
nowt to be done wi’out tryin’ — cept laying 
doon an dying.” 

“How will you travel ?” 

“Afoot, my kind leddy, afoot. 

Louisa colored, and a purse appeared in her 
hand._ The rustling of a bank-note was audi- 
ble, as she unfolded one and laid it on the 
table. 

“Rachael, will you tell him — for you know 
how, without offence — that this is freely his, 
to help him on his way? Will you entreat him 
to take it?” 

“I canna’ do that, young lady,” she answer- 
ed, turning her head aside; “bless you for 
thinking o’ the poor lad wi’ such tenderness. 
But ’tis for him to know his heart, and what is 
right according to it.” 

Louisa looked, in part incredulous, in part 
frightened,in part overcome with quick sympa- 
thy, when this man of so much self command, 
who had been so plain and steady through the 
late interview, lost his composure in a moment, 
and now stood with his hand before his face. 
She stretched cut hers, as if she would have 


TIMES. 139 

touched him; then checked herself, and re- 
mained still. 

“Not e’en Rachael,” said Stephen, when 
he stood again with his face uncovered, 
“could mak sitch a kind offerin, by onny 
words, kinder. T’ show that I’m not a 
man wi’out reason and gratitude. I’ll tak 
two pound. I’ll borrow’! for t’ pay’t back. — 
’T will be the sweetest work as ever I ha 
done, that puts it in my power t’ acknowledge 
once more my lastin thankfulness for this pre- 
sent action.” 

She was fain to take up the note again, and 
to substitute the much smaller sum he had 
named. He was neither courtly, nor hand- 
some, nor picturesque, in any respect; and yet 
his manner of accepting it, and of expressing 
his thanks without more words, had a grace in 
it that Lord Chesterfield could not have taught 
his son in a century. 

Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging one 
leg and sucking his walking-stick with suf- 
ficient unconcern, until the visit had attained 
this stage. Seeing his sister ready to depart, 
he got up, rather hurriedly, and put in a word, 

“Just wait a moment, Lool Before we 
go, I should like to speak to him a moment. 
Something comes into my head. If you’ll 
step out on the stairs, Blackpool, I’ll mention 
it. Never mind a light, manl” Tom was 
remarkably impatient of his moving towards 
the cupboard, to get one. “It don’t want a 
light.” 

Stephen followed him out, and Tom closed 
the room door, and held the lock in his hand. 

“I sayl” he whispered. “I think I can do 
you a good turn. Don’t ask me what it is, 
because it may not come to anything. But 
there’s no harm in my trying.” 

His breath fell like a flame of fire on Ste- 
phen’s ear; it was so hot. 

“That was our light porter at the Bank,” 
said Tom, “who brought you the message to- 
night. I call him our light porter, because I 
belong to- the Bank too.” 

Stephen thought “What a hurry he is ini” 
He spoke so confusedly. 

“Well!” said Tom. “Now look here I When 
are you off?” 

“T’day’s Monday,” replied Stephen, con- 
sidering. “Why, sir, Friday or Saturday, nigh 
’bout.” 

“Friday or Saturday,” said Tom. “Now, 
look herel I am not sure that I can do you 
the good turn I want to do you — that’s my 
sister, you know, in your room — but I may be 
able to, and if I should not be able to, there’s 
no harm done. So I tell you what. You’ll 
know our light porter again?” 

“Yes sure,” said Stephen. 

“Very well,” returned Tom. “When you 
leave work of a night, between this and your 
going away, just hang about the Bank an hour 
or so, will you? Don’t take on, as if you meant 
anything, if he should see you hanging about 
there ; because I shan’t put him up to speak to 
you, unless I find I can do you the service I 


140 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


want to do you. In that case he’ll have a note 
or a message for you, but not else. Now look 
herel You are sure you understand.” 

He had wormed a finger, in the dark- 
ness, through a button-hole of Stephen’s 
coat, and was screwing that corner of the gar- 
ment tight up, round and round, in an extraor- 
dinary manner. 

“I understand, sir,” said Stephen. 

“Now look here 1” repeated Tom. “Be sure 
you don’t make any mistake then, and don’t 
lorget. I shall tell my sister as we go home, 
what I have in view, and she’ll approve, I know. 
Now look here! You’re all right, are you? 
You understand all about it ? Very well then. 
Come along. Loo 1” 

He pushed the door open as he called to her, 
but did not return into the room, or wait to be 
lighted down the narrow stairs. He was at 
the bottom when she began to descend, and 
was in the street before she could take his 
arm. 

Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until 
the brother and sister were gone, and until 
Stephen came back with the candle in his 
hand. She was in a state of inexpressible 
admiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an 
unaccountable old woman, wept, “ because 
she was such a pretty dear.” Yet Mrs. 
Pegler was so flurried lest the object of 
her admiration should return by any chance, 
or anybody else should come, that her 
cheerfulness was ended for that night. It 
was late too, to people who rose early and 
worked hard ; therefore the party broke 
up ; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their 
mysterious acquaintance to the door of the 
Travellers’ Coffee House, where they parted 
fi-om her. 

They walked back together to the corner 
of the street where Rachael lived, and as they 
drew nearer and nearer to it, silence crept 
upon them. When they came to the dark 
corner where their unfrequent meetings always 
'ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were 
afraid to speak. 

“ I shall strive t’ see thee agen, Rachael, 
afore I go, but if not ” 

“Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. ’Tis bet- 
ter that we make up our minds to be open wi’ 
one another.” 

“ Thou’rt awlus right. ’Tis bolder and 
better. I ha’ been thinkin, then, Rachael, 
that as ’tis but a day or two that remains, 
’twere better for thee, my dear, not t’ be seen 
wi’ me. ’T might bring thee into trouble, fur 
no good.” 

“ Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But 
thou know’st our old agreement. ’Tis for that.” 

“Well, well,” said he. “’Tis better, onny- 
ways.” 

“Thou’lt write to me, and tell me all that 
happens, Stephen?” 

“Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be 
wi’ thee. Heaven bless thee. Heaven thank 
thee and reward thee!” 

“May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy 


wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at 
last!” 

“I towd thee, my dear,” said Stephen Black- 
pool — “that night — that I would never see or 
think o’ onnything that angered me, but thou, 
so much better than me, should’st be beside it. 
Thou’rt beside it now. Thou mak’st me see it 
wi’ a better eye. Bless thee. Good night. 
Good bye ! ” 

It was but a hurried parting in the common 
street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to 
these two common people. Utilitarian econo- 
mists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commission- 
ers of Fact, genteel and used up infidels, gab- 
blers of many little dog’s-eared creeds, the 
poor you will have always with you. Cultivate 
in them, while there is yet time, the utmost 
graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn 
their lives so much in need of ornament; or, 
in the moment of your triumph, when ro- 
mance is utterly driven out of their souls, and 
they and a bare existence stand face to face, 
Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an 
end of you! 

Stephen worked the next day, and the next, 
uncheered by a word from any one, and 
shunned in all his comings and goings as be- 
fore. At the end of the second day, he 
saw land; at the end of the third, his loom 
stood empty. 

He had overstayed his hour in the street 
outside the Bank, on each of the two first 
evenings; and nothing had happened there, 
good or bad. That he might not be remiss 
in his part of the engagement, he resolved to 
wait full two hours, on this third and last night. 

There was the lady who had once kept Mr. 
Bounderby’s house, sitting at the first floor 
window as he had seen her before ; and there 
was the light porter, sometimes talking with 
her there, and sometimes looking over the 
blind below which had Bank upon it, and 
sometimes coming to the door and standing 
on the steps for a breath of air. When he 
first came out, Stephen thought he might be 
looking for him, and passed near; but the light 
porter only cast his winking eyes upon him 
slightly, and said nothing. 

Two hours were a long stretch of lounging 
about, after a long day’s labor. Stephen sat 
upon the step of a door, leaned against a wall 
under an archway, strolled up and down, list- 
ened for the church clock, stopped and watched 
children playing in the street. Some purpose 
or other is so natural to every one, that a mere 
loiterer always looks and feels remarkable. — 
When the first hour was out, Stephen even be- 
gan to have an uncomfortable sensation upon 
him of being for the time a disreputable cha- 
racter. 

Then came the lamplighter, and two length- 
ening lines of light all down the long perspec- 
tive of the street, until they were blended and 
lost in the distance. Mrs. Sparsit closed the 
first floor window, drew down the blind, and 
went up stairs. Presently, a light went up 
stairs after her, passing first the fanlight oi 


HARD TIMES. 


the door, and afterwards the two staircase 
windows, on its way up. By and by, one corner 
of the second floor blind was disturbed, as if 
Mrs. Sparsit’s eye were there; also the other 
corner, as if the light porter’s eye were on that 
side. Still no communication was made to 
Stephen. Much relieved when the two hours 
were at last accomplished, he went away at a 
quick pace, as a recompense for so much loi- 
tering. 

He had only to take leave of his landlady, 
and lie down on his temporary bed upon the 
floor ; for his bundle was made up for to-mor- 
row, and all was arranged for his departure. 
He meant to be clear of the town very early : 
before the Hands were in the streets. 

It was barely daybreak, when with a parting 
look round his room, mournfully wondering 
whether he should ever see it again, he went 
out. The town was as entirely deserted as if 
the inhabitants had abandoned it, rather than 
hold communication with him. Everything 
looked wan at that hour. Even the coming 
sun made but a pale waste in the sky, like a 
sad sea. 

By the place where Rachael lived, though it 
was not in his way ; by the red brick streets ; 
by the great silent factories, not trembling yet ; 
by the railway, where the danger-lights were 
waning in the strengthening day ; by the rail- 
way’s crazy neighborhood, half pulled down 
and half built up ; by scattered red brick villas, 
where the besmoked evergreens were sprinkled 
with a dirty powder, like untidy snuff-takers ; 
by coal-dust paths and many varieties of ugli- 
ness ; Stephen got to the top of the hill, and 
looked back. 

Day was shining radiantly upon the town 
then, and the bells were going for the morn- 
ing work. Domestic fires were not yet lighted, 
and the high chimneys had the sky to them- 
selves. Puffing out their poisonous volumes, 
they would not be long in hiding it ; but, for 
half an hour, some of the many windows were 
golden, which showed the Coketown people a 
sun eternally in eclipse, through a medium of 
smoked glass. 

So strange to turn from the chimneys to the 
birds. So strange to have the road-dust on 
his feet instead of the coal-grit. So strange 
to have lived to his time of life, and yet to be 
beginning like a boy this summer morning ! 
With these musings in his mind, and his bundle 
under his arm, Stephen took his attentive face 
along the high road. And the trees arched 
over him, whispering that he left a true and 
loving heart behind. 


CHAPTER XXin. 

Mr. James Harthouse, “going in” for his 
adopted party, soon began to score. With the 
aid of a little more coaching for the political 
sages, a little more genteel listlessness for the 
general society, and a tolerable management 
of the assumed honesty in dishonesty, most ef- 
fective and most patronized of the polite dead- 


141 

ly sins, he speedily came to be considered of 
much promise. The not being troubled with 
earnestness was a grand point in his favor, 
enabling him to take to the hard Fact fellows 
with as good a grace as if he had been born 
one of the tribe, and to throw all other tribes 
overboard, as conscious imposters. 

“Whom none of us believe, my dear Mrs. 
Bounderby, and who do not believe them- 
selves. The only difference between us and 
the professors of virtue or benevolence, or phi- 
lanthropy — never mind the name — is, that 
we know it is all meaningless, and say so ; 
while they know it equally and will never say 
so.” 

Why should she be shocked or warned by 
this reiteration? It was not so unlike her 
father’s principles, and her early training, 
that it need startle her. Where was the great 
difference between the two schools, when each 
chained her down to material realities, and 
inspired her with no faith in anything else? 
What was there in her soul for James Hart- 
house to destroy, which Thomas Gradgrind 
had nurtured there in its state of innocence ? 

It was even th-e worse for her at this pass ; 
that in her mind — implanted there before her 
eminently practical father began to form it — 
a struggling disposition to believe in a wider 
and higher humanity than she had ever heard 
of, constantly strove with doubts and resent- 
ments. With doubts, because the aspiration 
had been so laid waste in her youth. With 
resentments, because of the wrong that had 
been done her, if it were indeed a whisper of 
the truth. Upon a nature long accustomed 
to self-suppression, thus torn and divided, the 
Harthouse philosophy came as a relief and jus- 
tification. Everything being hollow, and 
worthless, she had missed nothing and sacri- 
ficed nothing. What did it matter, she had 
said to her father, when he proposed her hus- 
band. What did it matter, she said still. — 
With a scornful self-reliance, she asked her- 
self, what did anything matter — and went on. 

Towards what? Step by step, onward and 
downward, towards some end, yet so gradu- 
ally that she believed herself to remain mo 
tionless. As to Mr. Harthouse, whither he 
tended, he neither considered nor cared. He 
had no particular design or plan before him; 
no energetic wickedness ruffled his lassi- 
tude. He was as much amused and in- 
terested, at present, as it became so fine a 
gentleman to be ; perhaps even more than it 
would have been consistent with his reputa- 
tion to confess. Soon after his arrival he lan- 
guidly wrote to his brother, the honorable and 
jocular member, that the Bounderbys were 
“great fun;” and further, that the female 
Bounderby, instead of being the Gorgon he 
had expected, was young and remarkably 
pretty. After that, he wrote no more about 
them, and devoted his leisure chiefly to their 
house. He was very often in their house, in 
his flittings and visitings about the Coketown 
district; and was much encouraged by Mr, 


142 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


Bounderby. It was quite in Mr. Bounderby’s 
gusty way to boast to all his world that he 
didn’t care about your highly connected people, 
but that if his wife Tom Gradgrind’s daughter 
did, she was welcome to their company. 

Mr. James Harthouse began to think it 
would be a new sensation, if the face which 
changed so beautifully for the whelp, would 
change for him. 

He was quick enough to observe; he had 
a good memory, and did not forget a word of 
the brother’s revelations.. He interwove them 
with everything he saw of the sister, and he 
began to understand her. To be sure, the 
better and profounder part of her character 
was not within his scope of perception ; for in 
natures, as in seas, depth answers unto depth ; 
but he soon began to read the rest with a 
student’s eye. 

Mr. Bounderby had taken possession of a 
house and grounds, about fifteen miles from 
the town, and accessible within a mile or 
two, by a railway striding on many arches 
over a wild country, undermined by deserted 
coalpits, and spotted at night by fires and 
black shapes of engines. This country, gra- 
dually softening towards the neighborhood 
of Mr. Bounderby’s retreat, there mellowed 
into a rustic landscape, golden with heath, 
and snowy with hawthorn in the spring of the 
year, and tremulous with leaves and their 
shadows all the summer time. The bank had 
foreclosed a mortgage on the property thus 
pleasantly situated: effected by one of the 
Coketown magnates : who, in his determina- 
tion to make a shorter cut than usual to an 
enormous fortune, overspeculated himself after- 
wards by about two hundred thousand pounds. 
These accidents did sometimes happen in the 
best- regulated families of Coketown, though 
the bankrupts had no connexion whatever 
with the improvident classes. 

It afforded Mr. Bounderby supreme satis- 
faction to instal himself in this snug little 
estate, and with demonstrative humility to 
grow cabbages in the flower-garden. He de- 
lighted to live, barrack fashion, among the 
elegant furniture, and he bullied the very 
pictures with his origin. “Why, sir,” he 
would say to a visiter, “I am told that 
Nickits,” the late owner, “gave seven hun^ 
dred pound for that Sea-beach. Now, to 
be plain with you, if I ever, in the whole 
course of my life, take seven looks at it, at a 
hundred pound a look, it will be as much as 
I shall do. No, by Qeorgel I don’t forget 
that I am Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown. 
For years upon years, the only pictures in my 
possession, or that I could have got into my 
possession by any means, unless I stole ’em, 
were the engravings of a man shaving himself 
in a boot, on the blacking bottles that I was 
overjoyed to use in cleaning boots with, and 
that I sold when they were empty for a farthing 
a-piece, and glad to get it I” 

Then he would address Mr. Harthouse in 
the same style. 


“Harthouse, you have a couple of horse# 
down here. Bring half a dozen morfe 
if you like, and we’ll find room for ’em. 
There’s *stabling in this place for a dozen 
horses; and unless Nickits is belied, he kept 
the full number. A round dozen of ’em, sir. 
When that man was a boy, he went to West- 
minster School. Went to Westminster School 
as a King’s Scholar, when I was principally 
living on garbage, and sleeping in market 
baskets. Why, if I wanted to keep a dozen 
horses— which I don’t, for one’s enough for 
me — I couldn’t bear to see ’em in their stalls 
here, and think what my own lodging used to 
be. I couldn’t look at ’em, sir, and not order 
’em out. Yet so things come round. You see 
this place; you know what sort of a place it 
is; you areaw are that there’s not a com- 
pleter place of its size in this kingdom or 
elsewhere — I don’t care where — and here, 
got into the middle of it, like a maggot into a 
nut, is Josiah Bounderby. While Nickits, (as 
a man came into my office, and told me 
yesterday,) Nickits, who used to act in Latin, 
in the Westminster School plays, with the 
chief justices and nobility of this country ap- 
plauding him till they were black in the face» 
is drivelling at this minute — drivelling, sir 1 — 
in a fifth floor, up a narrow dark back street 
in Antwerp.” 

It was among the leafy shadows of this re- 
tirement, in the long sultry summer days, that 
Mr. Harthouse began to prove the face which 
had set him wondering when he first saw it, 
and to try if it would change for him. 

“ Mrs. Bounderby, I esteem it a most for- 
tunate accident that I find you alone here. I 
have for some time had a particular wish to 
speak to you.” 

It was not by any wonderful accident that 
he found her, the time of day being that at 
which she was always alone, and the place 
being her favorite resort. It was an opening 
in a dark wood, where some felled trees lay, 
and where she would sit watching the fallen 
leaves of last year, as she had watched the 
falling ashes at home. 

He sat down beside her, with a glance at 
her face. 

“Your brother. My young friend Tom — ” 

Her color brightened, and she turned to him 
with a look of interest. “ I never in my life,” 
ho thought, “ saw anything so remarkable and 
so captivating as the lighting of those features !” 
His face betrayed his thoughts — perhaps with- 
out betraying him, for it might have been ac- 
cording to its instructions so to do. 

“Pardon me. The expression of your sis- 
terly interest is so beautiful — Tom should be 
so proud of it — I know this is inexcusable, but I 
am so compelled to admire.” 

•‘Being so impulsive,” she said composedly. 

“Mrs. Bounderby, no; you know I make no 
pretence with you. You know I am a sordid 
piece of human nature, ready to sell myself at 
any time for any reasonable sum, and al- 


HARD TIMES. 


together incapable of any Arcadian proceed- 
ing whatever.” 

“I am waiting,” she returned, “for your 
further reference to my brother.” 

“You are rigid with me, and I deserve it. 
I am as worthless as a dog, as you will find, 
except that I am not false — not false. But 
you surprised and started me from my subject, 
which was your brother. I have an interest in 
him.” 

“Have you an interest in anything, Mr. 
Harthouse?” she asked, half incredueously and 
half gratefully. 

“If you had asked me when I first came 
here, I should have said no. I must say now — 
even at the hazard of appearing to make a 
pretence, and of justly awakening your in- 
credulity — yes.” 

She made a slight movement, as if she were 
trying to speak, but could not find voice *, at 
length she said, “Mr. Harthouse, I give you 
credit for being interested in my brother.” 

“Thank you. I claim to deserve it. You 
know how little I do claim, but I will go that 
length. You have done so much for him, you 
are so fond of him; your whole life, Mrs. Boun- 
derby, expresses such charming self-forgetful- 
ness on his account — pardon me again — I am 
running wide of the subject. I am interested 
in him for his own sake.” 

She had made the slightest action possible, 
as if she would have risen in a hurry and gone 
away. He had turned the course of what he 
said at that instant, and she remained. 

“ Mrs. Bounderby,” he resumed, in a lighter 
manner, and yet with a show of efibrt in 
assuming it, which was even more expressive 
than ;he manner he dismissed; “it is no irre- 
vocable offence in a young fellow of your 
brother’s years, if he is heedless, inconside- 
rate and expensive — a little dissipated, in the 
common phrase. Is he?” 

“Yes.” 

“Allow me to be frank. Do you think he 
games at all?” 

“1 think he makes bets.” Mr. Harthouse 
waiting, as if that were not her whole answer, 
she added, “I know he does.” 

“Of course he loses?” 

“Yes.” 

“Everybody loses who bets. May I hint at 
the probability of your sometimes supplying 
him with money for these purposes?” ^ 

She sat, looking down; but, at this ques- 
tion, raised her eyes searchingly and a little 
resentfully. 

“Acquit me of impertinent curiosity, my 
dear Mrs. Bounderby. I think Tom may be 
gradually falling into trouble, and I wish to 
stretch out a helping hand to him from the 
depths of my wicked experience. Shall I say 
again, for his sake? Is that necessary?” 

"^She seemed to try to answer, but nothing 
came of it. 

“Candidly to confess every thing that has 
occurred to me,” said James Hartlwuse, again 
gliding with the same appearance of effort into 


143 

his more airy manner; “I will confide to you 
my doubt whether he has had many advantages. 
Whether — forgive my plainness — whether any 
great amount of confidence is likely to have 
been established between himself and his most 
worthy father.” 

“I do not,” said Louisa, fiushing with her 
own great remembrance in that wise, “think it 
likely.” 

“Or, between himself, and — I may trust to 
your perfect understanding of my meaning I 
am sure — and his highly esteemed brother-in- 
law.” 

She flushed deeper and deeper, and was 
burning red when she replied in a fainter 
voice, “I do not think that likely, either.” 

“Mrs. Bounderby,” said Harthouse, after a 
short silence, “may there be a better confidence 
between yourself and me? Tomhas borrowed 
a considerable sum of you?” 

“You will understand, Mr. Harthouse,” 
she returned, after some indecision : she had 
been more or less uncertain, and troubled 
throughout the conversation, and yet had in 
the main preserved her self-contained man- 
ner : “you will understand that if I tell you 
what you press to know, it is not by way of 
complaint or regret. I would never complain 
of anything, and what I have done I do not in 
the least regret.” 

“So spirited, tool” thought James Hart- 
house. 

“When I married, I found that my brother 
was even at that time heavily in debt. Heav^’y 
for him, I mean. Heavily enough to oblige 
me to sell some trinkets. They were no sacri- 
fice. I sold them very willingly. I attached 
no value to them. They were quite worthless 
to me.” 

Either she saw in his face that he knew, or 
she only feared in her conscience that he knew, 
that she spoke of some of her husband’s gifts. 
She stopped, and reddened again. If he had 
not known it before, he would have known it 
then, though he had been a much duller man 
than he was. 

“Since then, I have given my brother, at 
various times, what money I could spare : in 
short, what money I have had. Confiding in 
you at all, on the faith of the interest you pro- 
fess for him, I will not do so by halves. Since 
you have been in the habit of visiting here, he 
has wanted in one sum as much as a hundred 
pounds. I have not been able to give it to 
him. I have felt uneasy for the consequences of 
his being so involved, but I have kept these se- 
crets until now, when Itrust them to yourhonor, 
I have held no confidence with any one, because 
— you anticipated my reason just now.” She 
abruptly broke off. 

He was a ready man, and he saw, and 
seized, an opportunity here of presenting her 
own image to her, slightly disguised as her 
brother. 

“Mrs. Bounderby, though a graceless person, 
of the w’orld worldly, I feel the utmost in- 
terest, I assure you, in what you tell me. I 


DICKENS^ NEW STOEIES. 


144 

cannot possibly be bard upon your brother. I 
understand and share the wise consideration 
with which you regard his errors. With all 
possible respect both for Mr. Gradgrind and 
for Mr. Bounderby, I think I perceive that 
he has not been fortunate in his training. 
Bred at a disadvantage towards the society 
in which he has his part to play, he rushes 
into these extremes for himself, from opposite 
extremes that have long been forced — with the 
very best intentions we have no doubt — upon 
him. Mr. Bounderby’s fine bluff English 
independence, though a most charming 
characteristic, does not — as we have agreed — 
invite confidence. If I might venture to 
remark that it is the least in the world defi- 
cient in that delicacy to which a youth mis- 
taken, a character misconceived, and abilities 
misdirected, would turn for relief and guid- 
ance, I should express what it presents to my 
own view.” 

As she sat looking straight before her, across 
the changing lights upon the grass into the 
darkness of the wood beyond, he saw in her 
face her application of his very distinctly 
uttered words. 

“All allowance,” he continued, “must be 
made. I have one great fault to find with 
Tom, however, which I cannot forgive, and for 
which I take him heavily to account.” 

Louisa turned her eyes to his face, and 
asked him what fault was that ? 

“Perhaps,” he returned, “I have said 
enough. Perhaps it would have been better, 
on the whole, if no allusion to it had escaped 
me.” 

“ You alarm me, Mr. Harthouse. Pray let 
me know it.” 

“To relieve you from needless apprehension 
— andas this confidence regarding your brother, 
which I prize, I am sure, above all possible 
things, has been established between us — I 
obey. I cannot forgive him for not being more 
sensible, in every word, look, and act of his life, 
of the affection of his best friend ; of the devo- 
tion of his best friend; of her unselfishness; of 
her sacrifice. The return he makes her, within 
my observation, is a very poor one. What she 
has done for him demands his constant love and 
gratitude, not his ill-humor and caprice. Care- 
less fellow as I am, I am not so indifferent, 
Mrs. Bounderby, as to be regardless of this 
vice in your brother, or inclined to consider it a 
venial offence.” 

Tiie wood floated before her, for her eyes 
were suffused with tears. They rose from a 
deep well, long concealed, and her heart was 
filled with acute pain that found no relief in 
them. 

“In a word, it is to correct your brother in 
this, Mrs. Bounderby, that I most aspire. My 
better knowledge of his circumstances, and 
my direction and advice in extricating him — 
rather valuable, I hope, as coming from a 
scapegrace on a much larger scale — will give 
me some influence over him, and all I gain I 
shall certainly use towards this end. I have 


said enough, and more than enough. I seem 
to be protesting that I am a sort of good 
fellow, when, upon my honor, I have not the 
least intention to make any protestation to 
that effect, and openly announce that I am 
nothing of the sort. Yonder, among the trees,” 
he added, having lifted up his eyes and looked 
about; for he had watched her closely until 
now; “is your brother himself; no doubt, 
just come down. As he seems to be loitering 
in this direction, it may be as well, perhaps, 
to walk towards him, and throw ourselves in 
his way. He has been very silent and doleful 
of late. Perhaps, his brotherly conscience is 
touched — if there are such things as con- 
sciences. Though, upon my honor, I hear of 
them much too often to believe in them.” 

He assisted her to rise, and she took his 
arm, and they advanced to meet the whelp. 
He was idly beating the branches as he 
lounged along: or he stopped viciously to rip 
the moss from the trees with his stick. He 
was startled when they came upon him while 
he was engaged in this latter pastime, and his 
color changed. 

“Halloa 1” he stammered, “I didn’t know you 
were here.” 

“Whose name, Tom,” said Mr. Harthouse, 
putting his hand upon his shoulder and turn- 
ing him, so that they all three walked towards 
the house together, “have you been carving on 
the trees?” 

“Whose name?” returned Tom. “Oh! You 
mean what girl’s name?” 

“You have a suspicious appearance of in- 
scribing some fair creature’s on the bark, 
Tom.” 

“Not much of that, Mr. Harthouse, unless 
some fair creature with a slashing fortune at 
her own disposal would take a fancy to me. 
Or she might be as ugly as she was rich, with- 
out any fear of losing me. I’d carve her 
name as often as she liked.” 

“I’m afraid you are mercenary, Tom.” 

“Mercenary,” repeated Tom. “Who is not 
mercenary? Ask my sister.” 

“Have you so proved it to be a failing of 
mine, Tom?” said Louisa, showing no other 
sense of his discontent and ill-nature. 

“You know whether the cap fits you. Loo,” 
returned her brother sulkily. “If it does, you 
can wear it.” 

“Tom is misanthropical to day, as all bored 
people are, now and then,” said Mr. Hart- 
house. “Don’t believe him, Mrs. Bounderby. 
He knows much better. I shall disclose some 
of his opinions of you, privately expressed to 
me, unless he relents a little.” 

“At all events, Mr. Harthouse,” said Tom, 
softening in his admiration of his patron, but 
shaking his head sullenly too, “you can’t tell 
her that I ever praised her for being merce- 
nary. I may have praised her for being the 
contrary, and I should do it again if I had as 
good reason. However, never mind this now; 
it’s not very interesting to you, and I am sick 
of the subject.” 


HARD TIMES. 


145 


They walked on to the house, where Louisa 
quitted her visiter’s arm and went in. He stood 
looking after her, as she ascended the steps, 
and passed into the shadow of the door; then 
put his hand upon her brother’s shoulder again, 
and invited him with a confidential nod to a 
walk in the garden. 

“Tom, my fine fellow, I want to have a word 
with you.” 

They had stopped among a disorder of roses 
— it was part of Mr. Bounderby’s humility to 
keep Nickit’s roses on a reduced scale — and 
Tom sat down on a terrace-parapet, plucking 
buds and picking them to pieces ; while his 
powerful Familiar stood over him, with a foot 
upon the parapet, and his figure easily resting 
on the arm supported by that knee. They were 
just visible from her window. Perhaps she 
saw them. 

“Tom, what's the matter?” 

“Oh ! Mr. Harthouse,” said Tom, with a 
groan, “I am hard up, and bothered out of 
my life.” 

“My good fellow, so am I.” 

“You!” returned Tom. “You are the pic- 
ture of independence. Mr. Harthouse, 1 am 
in a horrible mess. You have no idea what a 
state I have got myself into — what a state my 
sister might have got me out of, if she would 
onW have done it.” 

He took to biting the rose-buds now, and 
tearing them away from his teeth with a hand 
that trembled like an infirm old man’s. After 
one exceedingly observant look at him, his 
companion relapsed into his lightest air. 

“Tom, you are inconsiderate; you expect 
too much of your sister. You have had money 
of her, you dog, you know you have.” 

“Well, Mr. Harthouse, I know I have. — 
How else was I to get it ? Here’s old Boun- 
derby always boasting that at my age be lived 
upon two-pence a month, or something of that 
sort. Here’s my father drawing what he calls 
a line, and tying me down to it from a baby, 
neck and heels. Here’s my mother, who never 
has anything of her own, except her com- 
plaints. What is a fellow to do for money, 
and where am I to look for it, if not to my 
sister I” 

He was almost crying, and scattered the 
buds about by dozens. Mr. Harthouse took 
him persuasively by the coat. 

“But my dear Tom, if your sister has not 
got it — ” 

“Not got it, Mr. Harthouse? I don’t say 
she has got it. I may have wanted more than 
she was likely to have got. But then she 
ought to get it. She could get it. It’s of no 
use pretending to make a secret of matters 
now, after what I have told you already; you 
know she didn’t marry old Boundeiby for her 
own sake, or for his sake, but for my sake. 
Then why doesn’t she get what I want, out of 
him, for my sake? She is not obliged to say 
^vhat she is going to do with it; she is sharp 
enough ; she could manage to coax it out of 
him, if she chose. Then why doesn't she 
10 


choose, when I tell her of what consequence it 
is? But no. There she sits in his company 
like a stone, instead of making herself agreea- 
ble and getting it easily. I don’t know what 
you may call this, but I call it unnatural con- 
duct.” 

There was a piece of ornamental water im- 
mediately below the parapet, on the other side, 
into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very . 
strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Grad- 
grind, Junior, as the injured men of Coketown 
threatened to pitch their property into the At- 
lantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; 
and nothing more solid went over the stone 
balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds 
now floating about, a little surface-island. 

“My dear Tom,” said Harthouse, “let me try 
to be your banker.” 

“For God’s sake,” replied Tom, suddenly, 
“don’t talk about bankers I” And very white 
he looked, in contrast with the rdses. Very 
white. 

Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well bred 
man, accustomed to the best society, was not 
to be surprised — he could as soon have been 
affected — but he raised his eyelids a little 
more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch 
of wonder. Albeit it was as much against 
the precepts of his school to wonder, as it 
was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind 
College. 

“ What is the present need, Tom ? Three 
figures? Out with them. Say what they 
are.” 

“ Mr. Harthouse,” returned Tom, now ac- 
tually crying ; and his tears were better than 
his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made ; 

“ it’s too late ; the money is of no use to me 
at present. I should have had it before, to be 
of use to me. But I am very much obliged 
to you ; you’re a true friend.” 

A true friend I “Whelp, whelp ! ” thought 
Mr. Harthouse, lazily ; “ what an Ass you 
are I ” 

“And I take your offer as a great kind- 
ness,” said Tom, grasping his hand. “ As a 
great kindness, Mr. Harthouse.’’ 

“Well,” returned the other, “it may be of 
more use by and by. And, my good fellow, 
if you will open your bedevilments to me when 
they come thick upon you, Imayshowyor 
better ways out of them than you can find fo 
yourself.” 

“Thank you,” said Tom, shaking his head 
dismally, and chewing rosebuds. “I wish I 
had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse.” 

“Now, you see, Tom,” said Mr. Harthouse 
in conclusion ; himself tossing over a rose or 
two, as a contribution to the island, which was 
always drifting to the wall as if it w'anted to 
become a part of the mainland; “every man is 
selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly 
like the rest of my fellow creatures. I am 
desperately intent;” the languor of his despera- 
tion being quite tropical; “on your softening 
towards your sister — which you ought to do;: 


146 DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


and on your being a more loving and agreea- 
ble sort of brother — which you ought to be.” 

“I will be, Mr. Harthouse.” 

^‘No time like the present, Tom. Begin at 
once.” 

“Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall 
say so.” 

“Having made which bargain, Tom,” said 
Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, 
with an air which left him at liberty to infer — 
as he did, poor fool— that this condition was 
imposed upon him in mere careless good nature, 
to lessen his sense of obligation, “we will tear 
ourselves asunder until dinner-time.” 

When Tom appeared before dinner, though 
his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was 
on the alert; and he appeared before Mr. Boun- 
derby came in. “I didn’t mean to be cross, 
Loo,” he said, giving her his hand, and kissing 
her. “I know you are fond of me, and you 
know I am fond of you.” 

After this, there was a smile upon Louisa’s 
face that day, for some one else. Alas, for 
some one else 1 

“So much the less is the whelp the only 
creature that she cares for,” thought James 
Harthouse, reversing the reflection of his first 
day’s knowledge of her pretty face. “ So 
much the less, so much the less.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The next morning was too bright a morning 
for sleep, and James Harthouse rose early, and 
sat in the pleasant bay window of his dress- 
ing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that had 
had so wholesome an influence on his young 
friend. Reposing in the sunlight, with the fra- 

f ranee of his eastern pipe about him, and the 
rearay smoke vanishing into the air, so rich 
and soft with summer odors, he reckoned up 
his advantages as an idle winner might count 
his gains. He was not at all bored for the 
time, and could give his mind to it. 

He had established a confidence with her, 
from which her husband was excluded. He 
had established a confidence with her, that ab- 
solutely turned upon her indifference towards 
her husband, and the absence, now and at all 
times, of any congeniality between them. He 
had artfully, but plainly assured her, that he 
knew her heart in its last most delicate recess- 
es; he had come so near to her through its ten- 
derest sentiment; he had associated himself 
with that feeling; and the barrier behind which 
she lived, had melted away. All very odd, and 
very satisfactory I 

And yet he had not, even now, any earnest 
wickedness of purpose in him. Publicly and 
privately, it were much better for the age in 
which he lived, that he and the legion of whom 
he was one were designedly bad, than indififer- 
ent and purposeless. It is the drifting icebergs 
setting with any current anywhere, that wreck 
the ships. 

When the Devil goeth about like a roaring 
lion, he goeth about in a shape by which few 


but savages and hunters are attracted. But, 
when he is trimmed, varnished, and polished, 
according to the mode ; when he is aweary of 
vice, and aweary of virtue, used up as to brim- 
stone, and used up as to bliss; then, whether 
he take^o the serving out of red tape, or to 
the kindling of red fire, he is the very Devil. 

So, James Harthouse reclined in the window, 
indolently smoking, and reckoning up the 
steps he had taken on the road by which he 
happened to be travelling. The end to which 
it led was before him, pretty plainly ; but he 
troubled hiaself with no calculations about it. 
What will be, will be. 

As he had rather a long ride to take that day 
— for there was a public occasion “ to do ” at 
some distance, which afforded a tolerable op- 
portunity of going in for the Gradgrind men — 
he dressed early, and went down to breakfast. 
He was anxious to see if she had relapsed since 
the previous evening. No. He resumed where 
he had left off. There was a look of interest 
for him again. 

He got through the day as much (or as 
little) to his own satisfaction, as was to be 
expected under the fatiguing circumstances; 
and came riding back at six o’clock. There 
was a sweep of some half mile between the 
lodge and the house, and he was riding along 
at a foot’s pace over the smooth gravel, once 
Nickit’s, when Mr. Bounderby burst out of the 
shrubbery with such violence as to make his 
horse shy across the road. 

“Harthouse 1” cried Mr. Bounderby. “Have 
you heard?” 

“Heard what?” said Harthouse, soothing his 
horse, and inwardly favoring Mr. Bounderby 
with no good wishes. 

“Then you havenH heard 1’^ 

“I have heard you, and so has this brute. — 
I have heard nothing else.” 

Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted himself 
in the centre of the path before the horse’s 
head, to explode his bombshell with more ef- 
fect. 

“The Bank’s robbed!” 

“You don’t mean it!” 

“Robbed last night, sir. Robbed in an 
extraordinary manner. Robbed with a false 
key.” 

“Of much ?” 

Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to make the 
most of it, really seemed mortified by being 
obliged to reply. “Why, no; not of very much. 
But it might have been.” 

“Of how much ?” 

“Oh! as a sum — if you stick to a sum — of 
not more than a hundred and fifty pound,’' 
said Bounderby, with impatience. “But it’s 
not the sum ; it’s the fact. It’s the fact of 
the Bank being robbed, that’s the important 
circumstance. I am surprised you don’t 
see it.” 

“My dear Bounderby,” said James, dis- 
mounting, and giving his bridle to his servant, 
“ I do see it ; and am as overcome as you can 
possibly desire me to be, by the spectacle 


HARD TIMES. 


afforded to my mental view. Nevertheless, 
I may be allowed, I hope, to congratulate you 
— which I do with all my soul, I assure you 
— on your not having sustained a greater 
loss ” 

“ Thank’ee,” replied Bounderby, in a short, 
ungracious manner. “ But I tell you what. 
It might have been twenty thousand pound.” 

“I suppose it might.” 

^‘Suppose it might? By the Lord, you may 
suppose so. By George!” said Mr. Bounder- 
by, with sundry menacing nods and shakes of 
his head, ‘Tt might have been twice twenty. 
There’s no knowing what it would have been, 
or wouldn’t have been, as it was, but for th3 
fellows’ being disturbed.” 

Louisa had come up now, and Mrs. Sparsit, 
and Bitzer. 

“Here’s Tom Gradgrind’s daughter knows 
pretty well what it might have been, if you 
don’t,” blustered Bounderby. “Dropped, sir, 
as if she was shot, when I told her ! Never 
knew her do such a thing before. Does her 
credit, under the circumstances, in my opinion.” 

She still looked faint and pale. James 
Harthouse begged her to take his arm; and as 
they moved on very slowly, asked how the rob- 
bery had been committed. 

“Why, I am going to tell you,” said Boun- 
derby, irritably giving his arm to Mrs. Sparsit. 
“If you hadn’t been so mighty particular about 
the sum, I should have begun to tell you be 
fore. You know this lady (for she is a lady), 
Mrs. Sparsit?” 

“I have already had the honor” — 

“Very well. And this young man, Bitzer, 
you saw him too on the same occasion?” Mr. 
Harthouse inclined his head in assent, and 
Bitzer knuctled his forehead. 

“Very well. They live at the Bank. You 
know they live at the’ Bank perhaps? Very 
well. Yesterday afternoon, at the close of 
business hours, everything was put away as 
usual. In the iron room that this young fel- 
low sleeps outside of, there was — never mind 
how much. In the little safe in young Tom’s 
closet, the safe used for petty purposes, there 
was a hundred and fitty odd pound.” 

“Hundred and fifty-four, seven, one,” said 
Bitzer. 

“Come !” retorted Bounderby, stopping to 
wheel round upon him, “let’s have none of 
your interruptions. It’s enough to’ be robbed 
while you’re snoring because you’re too com- 
fortable, without being put right with your four 
seven ones. I didn’t snore, myself, when I 
was your age, let m^J tell you. I hadn’t victuals 
enough to snore. And I didn’t four seven one. 
Not if I knew it.” 

Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, in a 
sneaking manner, and seemed at once par- 
ticularly impressed and depressed by the 
instance last given of Mr. Bounderby’s moral 
abstinence. 

“A hundred and fifty odd pound,” resumed 
Mr. Bounderby. “That sum of money, young 
Tom locked in his safe; not a very strong sale. 


M7 

but that’s no matter now. Everything was left, 
all right. Some time in the night, while this 
young fellow snored — Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, you 
say you h/ive heard him snore ?” 

‘ Sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “I cannot say 
that I have heard him precisely snore, and 
therefore must not make that statement. 
But on winter evenings, when he has fallen 
asleep at his table, I have heard him, what I 
should prefer to describe as partially choke. 
I have heard him on such occasions produce 
sounds of a nature similar to what may be 
sometimes heard ‘ in Dutch clocks. Not,” 
said Mrs. Sparsit, with a lofty sense of giving 
strict evidence, “that I would convey any im- 
putation on his moral character. Far from it, 
I have always considered Bitzer a young man 
of the most upright principle; and to that I 
beg to bear my testimony. 

“Well!” said the exasperated Bounderby, 
“while he was snoring, or choking, or Dutch- 
clocking, or something or other — being asleep 
— some fellows, somehow whether previously 
concealed in the house or not remains to be 
seen, got to young Tom’s safe, forced it, and 
abstracted the contents. Being then dis- 
turbed, they made off; letting themselves out 
at the main door, and' double-locking it again 
(it was double-locked, and the key under Mrs. 
Sparsit’s pillow) with a false key, which was 
picked up in the street near the Bank, about 
twelve o’clock to-day. No alarm takes place, 
till this chap, Bitzer, turns out this morning 
and begins to open and prepare the offices for 
business. Then, looking at Tom’s safe, he sees 
the door ajar, and finds the lock forced, and 
the money gone.” 

“Where is Tom, by the by?” asked Hart- 
house, glancing round. 

“He has beenhelping the police,” said Boun- 
derby, “and stays behind at the Bank. I wish 
these fellows had tried to rob me when I was at 
his time of life. They would have been out of 
pocket, if they had invested eighteen pence in 
the job; I can tell ’em that.” 

“Is anybody suspected?” 

“ Suspected ? I should think there was 
somebody suspected. Egod !” said Bounderby, 
relinquishing Mrs. Sparsit’s arm to wipe his 
heated head, “ Josiah Bounderby of Coketown 
is not to be plundered and nobody suspected. 
No, thank you !” 

Might Mr. Harthouse inquire Who was sus- 
pected? 

“ Well,” said Bounderby, stopping and 
facing about to confront them all, “ I’ll tell 
you. It’s not to be mentioned everywhere ; 
it's not to be mentioned anywhere ; in order 
that the scoundrels concerned (there’s a gang 
of ’em) may be thrown off their guard. So 
take this in confidence. Now wait a bit.” 
Mr. Bounderby wiped his head again. “What 
should you say to;” here he violently exploded; 
“to a Hand being in it?” 

“ 1 hope,” said Harth juse, lazily, “ not our 
friend Blackpot?’’ 


DICKENS^ NEW STOKIES. 


148 

“Say Pool instead of Pot, sir,” returned 
Bounderby, “ and that’s the man.” 

Louisa faintly uttered some word of incre- 
dulity and surprise. 

“ 0 yes 1 I know 1” said Bounderby, imme- 
diately catching at the sound. “ I know 1 
I am used to that! I know all about it. 
They are the finest people in the world, these 
fellows are. They have got the gift of the gab, 
they have. They only want to have their 
rights explained to them, they do. But I tell 
you what. Show me a dissatisfied Hand, and 
I’ll show you a man that’s fit for anything bad, 
I don’t care what it is.” >. ^ 

Another of the- popular fictions of Coke- 
town, which some pains had been taken to 
disseminate — and which some people really 
believed. 

“ But I am acquainted with these chaps,” 
said Bounderby. “ I can read ’em off, like 
books. Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, I appeal to you. 
What warning did I give that fellow, the first 
time he set foot iu the house, when the express 
object of his visit was to know how he could 
knock Religion over, and floor the Established 
Church ? Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high con- 
nexions, you are on a level with the aristo- 
cracy, — did I say, or did I not say, to that 
fellow, ‘ you can’t hide the truth tfom me ; 
you are not the kind of fellow I like ; you’ll 
come to no good ?’ ” 

“Assuredly, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “you 
did, in a highly impressive manner, give him 
such an admonition.” 

“When he shocked you, ma’am,” said 
Bounderby; “when he shocked your feelings?” 

“Yes, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a 
meek shake of her head, “he certainly did so. 
Though I do not mean to say but that my feel- 
ings may be weaker on such points — more 
foolish, if the term is preferred — than they 
might have been, if I had always occupied my 
present position.” 

Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride 
at Mr. Harthouse, as much as to say, “1 am 
the proprietor of this female, and she’s worth 
your attention, I think ?” Theij, resumed his 
discourse. 

“You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, 
what I said to him when you saw him. I 
didn’t mince the matter with him. I am 
never mealy with ’em. I know ’em. Very 
well, sir. Three days after that, he bolted. 
Went off, nobody knows where : as my mother 
did in iny infancy — only with this difference, 
that he is a worse subject than my mother, 
if possible. What did he do before he went ? 
What do you say Mr. Bounderby, with 
his hat in his hand, gave a beat upon the 
crown at every little division of his sentences, 
as if it were a tambourine; “to his being 
seen — night after night — watching the Bank? 
— To his lurking about there — after dark? — 
To its striking Mrs. Sparsit — that he could 
be lurking for no good? — To her calling Bitzer’s 
attention to him, and their both taking notice 
of him? — ^And to its appearing on inquiry 


to-day — that he was also noticed by the neigh- 
bors?” Having come to the climax, Mr. 
Bounderby, like an oriental dancer, put his 
tambourine on his head. 

“Suspicious,” said James Harthouse, “cer- 
tainly.” 

“ I think so, sir,” said Bounderby, with a 
defiant nod. “ I think so. But there are 
more of ’em in it. There’s an old woman. 
One never hears of these things till the mis- 
chief’s done ; all sorts of defects are found 
out in the stable door after the horse is 
stolen; there’s an old woman turns up now. 
An old woman who seems to have been flying 
into town on a broomstick, every now and 
then. SJie watches the place a whole day 
before this fellow begins, and, on the night 
when you saw him, she steals away with him 
and holds a council with him — I suppose, to 
make her report on going off duty, and be 
d — d to her.” 

There was such a person in the room that 
night, and she shrunk from observation, 
thought Louisa. 

“ This is not all of ’em, even as we already 
know ’em,” said Bounderby, with many nods 
of hidden meaning. “ But I have said 
enough for the present. You’ll have the 
goodness to keep it quiet, and mention it to 
no one. It may take time, but we shall have 
’em. It’s policy to give ’em line enough, and 
there’s no objection to that.” 

“Of course, they will be punished with the 
utmost rigor of the law, as notice-boards ob- 
serve,” replied James Harthouse, “ and serve 
them right. Fellows who go in for Banks 
must take the consequences. If there were 
no consequences, we should all go in for 
Banks.” He had gently taken Louisa’s para- 
sol from her hand, and had put it up for her ; 
and she walked under its shade, though the 
sun did not shine there. 

“For the present, Loo Bounderby,’^ said her 
husband, “here’s Mrs. Sparsit to look after. 
Mrs. Sparsit’s nerves have been acted upon by 
this business, and she’ll stay here a day or two. 
So make her comfortable.” 

“Thank you very much, sir,” that discreet 
lady observed,” but pray do not let My com- 
fort be a consideration. Anything will do for 
Me.” 

It soon appeared that if Mrs. Sparsit had a 
failing in her association with that domestic 
establishment, it was that she was so exces- 
sively regardless of herself and regardful of 
others as to be a nuisance. On being shown 
her cltamber, she was so dreadfully sensible 
of its comforts as to suggest the inference 
that she would have preferred to pass the 
night on the mangle in the laundry. True, 
the Fowlers and the Scadgerses were accus- 
tomed to splendor, “but it is my duty to 
remember,” Mrs. Sparsit was fond of observ- 
ing with a lofty grace : particularly when any 
of the domestics were present, “that what 1 
was, I am no longer. Indeed,” said she, 
“ if I could altogether cancel the remem- 


149 


HARD TIMES. 


brance that Mr. Sparsit was a Fowler, or 
that I myself am related to the Scadgers 
family ; or if I could even revoke the lact, 
and make myself a person of common 
descent and ordinary connexions ; I would 
gladly do so. I should think it, under exist- 
ing circumstances, right to do so.” The same 
Hermitical state of mind led to her renuncia- 
tion of made dishes and wines at dinner, 
until fairly commanded by Mr. Bounderby 
to take them ; when she said, “ Indeed, you 
are very good, sir ; ” and departed from a 
resolution of which she had made rather 
formal and public announcement, to “wait for 
the simple mutton.” She was likewise deeply 
apologetic for wanting the salt ; and, feeling 
amiably bound to bear out Mr. Bounderby 
to the fullest extent in the testimony he had 
borne to her nerves, occasionally sat back 
in her chair and silently wept ; at which 
periods a tear of large dimensions, like a 
crystal ear-ring, might be observed (orrathei, 
must be, for it insisted on public notice) 
sliding down her Roman nose. 

But Mrs. Sparsit’s greatest point, first and 
last, was her determination to pity Mr. Boun- 
derby. ’There were occasions when in 
looking at him she was involuntarily moved 
to shake her head, as who should say “Alas ! 
oor YorickI” After allowing herself to be 
etrayed into these evidences of emotion, she 
would force a lambent brightness, and would 
be fitfully cheerful, and would say, “You 
have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to 
find ;” and would appear to hail it as a blessed 
dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as 
he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she 
often apologised, she found it excessively 
difficult to conquer. She had a curious pro- 
pensity to call Mrs. Bounderby “ Miss Grad- 
grind,” and yielded to it some three or four 
score times in the course of the evening. Her 
repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. 
Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she 
said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Grad- 
grind : whereas, to persuade herself that the 
young lady whom she had had the happiness 
of knowing from a child could be really and 
truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost im- 
possible. It was a further singularity of this 
remarkable case, that the more she thought 
about it, the more impossible it appeared; “the 
differences,” she observed, “being such — ” 

In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. 
Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, 
examined the witnesses, made notes of the 
evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, 
and sentenced them to the extreme punish- 
ment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dis- 
missed to town with instructions to recom- 
mend Tom to come home by the mail-train. 

When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit 
murmured, “ Don’t be low, sir. Pray let me 
see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do.” Mr. 
Bounderby, upon whom these consolations 
had begun to produce the effect of making 
him, in a bull-headed, blundering way, sen- 


timental, sighed like some large sea-animal. 
“ I cannot bear to see you so, sir,” said 
Mrs. Sparsit. “ Try a hand at backgammon, 
sir, as you used to do when I had the honor 
of living under your roof.” “I haven’t played 
backgammon, ma’am,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
“ since that time.” “ No, sir,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, soothingly, “I am aware that you 
have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind 
takes no interest in the game. But I shall be 
happy, sir, if you will condescend.” 

They played near a window, opening on the 
garden. It was a fine night ; not moonlight, 
but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. 
Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where 
their voices could be heard in the stillness, 
though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, 
from her place at the backgammon board, was 
constantly straining her eyes to pierce the 
shadows without. “What’s the matter, ma’am?” 
said Mr. Bounderby; “you don’t see a fire, 
do you ?” “ Oh dear no, sir,” returned Mrs. 

Sparsit, “I was thinking of the dew.” “What 
have you got to do with the dew, ma’am ?” 
said Mr. Bounderby. “It’s not myself, sir,” 
returned Mrs. Sparsit, “ I am fearful of Miss 
Gradgrind’s taking cold.” “ She never takes 
cold,” said Mr. Bounderby. “ Really sir ?” 
said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a 
cough in her throat. 

When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. 
Bounderby took a glass of water. “Oh, sir 1” 
said Mrs. Sparsit. “Not your sherry w^arm, 
with lemon-peel and nutmeg?” “Why, I have 
got out of the habit of taking it now, ma’am,” 
said Mr. Bounderby. “The more’s the pity, 
sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit; “you are losing all 
your good old habits. Cheer up, sirl If Miss 
Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make 
it for you, as i have often done.” 

Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. 
Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that 
considerate lady made the beverage, and 
handed it to Mr. Bounderby. “It will do 
you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is 
the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, 
sir.” And when Mr. Bounderby said, “Your 
health, ma’am 1” she answered with great feel- 
ing, “Thank you, sir. The same to you, and 
happiness also.” Finally, she wished him good 
night, with great pathos ; and Mr. Bounderby 
went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that 
he had been crossed in something tender, 
though he could not, for his life, have men- 
tioned what it was. 

Long after Louisa had undressed and 
lain down, she watched and waited for her 
brother’s coming home. That could hardly be, 
she knew, until an h( ur past midnight; but 
in the country silence, which did anything 
but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time 
lagged wearily. At last, when the darkness 
and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken 
one another, she heard the bell at the gate. 
She felt as though she would have been glad 
that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased, 
and the circles of its last sound spread out 


DICKENS’ NEW STOEIES. 


150 

feinter and wider in the air, and all was dead 
again. 

She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as 
she judged. Then she arose, put on a loose 
robe, and went out of her room in the dark, 
and up the staircase to her brother’s room. 
His door being shut, she softly opened it and 
spoke to him, approaching his bed with a 
noiseless step. 

She kneeled down beside it, passed her arm 
over his neck, and drew his face to hers. She 
knew that he only feigned to be asleep, but she 
said nothing to him. 

He started by and by as if he were just then 
awakened, and ask who that was, and what 
was the matter ? 

“Tom, have you anything to tell me? If 
ever you loved me in your life, and have any- 
thing concealed from every one besides, tell, it 
to me.” 

“I don’t know what you mean. Loo. You 
have been dreaming.” 

“My dear brother;” she laid her head down 
on his pillow, and her hair flowed over him 
as if she would hide him from every one but 
herself ; “is there nothing that you have to tell 
me ? Is there nothing you can tell me, if you 
will. You can 'tell me nothing that will change 
me. U Tom, tell me the truth 1” 

“I don’t know what you mean. Loo.” 

“As you lie here alone, my dear, in the 
melancholy night, so you must lie somewhere 
one night, when even I, if I am living then, 
shall have left you. As I am here beside you, 
barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishablein dark- 
ness, so must I lie through all the night of my 
decay, until I am dust. In the name of that 
time, Tom, tell me the truth now !” 

“What is it you want to know ?” 

“You may be certain in the energy of her 
love she took him to her bosom as if he were 
a child; “that I will not reproach you. You 
may be certain that I will be compassionate 
and true to you. You may be certain that I 
will save you at whatever cost. 0 Tom, have 
ou nothing to tell me? Whisper very softly, 
ay only ‘yes,’ and I shall understand youl” 

She turned her ear to his lips, but he remain- 
ed doggedly silent. 

“Not a word, Tom?” 

“How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, 
when I don’t know what you mean? Loo, you 
are a brave kind girl, worthy I begin to think 
of a better brother than I am. But I have no- 
thing more to say. Go to bed, go to bed.” 

“You are tired,” she whispered presently, 
more in her usual way. 

“Yes, I am quite tired out.” 

“You have been so hurried and disturbed 
to-day. Have any fresh discoveries been 
made?” 

“Only those you have heard of, from — 
him.” 

“Tom, have you said to any one that we 
made a visit to those people, and that we saw 
those three together ? ’ 

“No. Did’nt you yourself particularly ask 


me to keep it quiet^ when you asked me to go 
there with you?” 

“ Yes. But I did not know then what was 
going to happen.” 

“ Nor I neither. How could I ?” 

He was very quick upon her with this 
retort. 

“Ought I to say, after what has happened,” 
said his sister, standing by the bed — she had 
gradually withdrawn herself and risen, “that 
I made that visit? Should I say so? Must I 
say so?” 

“Good Heavens, Loo,” returned her brother, 
“you are not in the habit of asking my advice. 
Say what you like. If you keep it to your- 
self, I shall keep it to myself. If you disclose 
it, there’s an end of it.” 

It was too dark for either to see the other’s 
face ; but each seemed very attentive, and to 
consider before speaking. 

“Tom, do you believe the man I gave the 
money to, is really implicated in this crime?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t see why he shouldn’t 
be.” 

“He seemed to me an honest man.” 

“Another person may seem to you dishonest, 
and yet not be so.” 

There was a pause, for he had hesitated and 
stopped. 

“In short,” resumed Tom, as if he had made 
up his mind, “if you come to that, perhaps I 
was so far from being altogether in his favor, 
that I took him outside the door to tell him 
quietly, that I thought he might consider him- 
self very well off to get such a windfall as he 
had got from my sister, and that I hoped he 
would make a good use of it. You remember 
whether I took him out or not. I say nothing 
against the man; he may be a very good fel- 
low, for anything I know; I hope he is.” 

“Was he offended by what you said?” 

“No, he took it pretty well; he was civil 
enough. AV here are you. Loo?” He sat up 
in bed and kissed her. “Good night, my dear, 
good night !” 

“You have nothing more to tell me ?” 

“No. What should I have ? You wouldn’t 
have me tell you a lie ?” 

“I wouldn’t have you do that to-night, 
Tom, of all the nights in your life; many and 
much happier as I hope they will be.” 

“Thank you, my dear L£) 0 . I am so tired, 
that I am sure I wonder I don’t say anything, 
to get to sleep. Go to bed, go to bed.” 

Kissing her again, he turned round, drew 
the coverlet over his head, and lay as still as 
if that time had come by which she had ad- 
jured him. She stood for some time at the 
bedside before she slowly moved away. She 
stopped at the door, looked back when she had 
opened it, and asked him if he had called her? 
But he lay still, and she softly closed the door 
and returned to her room. 

Then the wretched boy looked cautiously 
up and found her gone, crept out of bed, fast- 
ened his door, and threw himself upon his pil- 
low again ; tearing his hair, morosely crying 


HARD 

grudgingly loving her, hatefully but impeni- 
tently spurning himself, and no less hatefully 
and unprofitably spurning all the good in the 
world. 


' CHAPTER XXV. 

Mrs. Sparsit, lying by to recover the tone 
of her nerves in Mr. Bounderby’s retreat, 
kept such a sharp look-out, night and day, 
under her Coriolanian eyebrows, that her eyes, 
like a couple of lighthouses on an iron bound 
coast, might have warned all prudent mari- 
ners from that bold rock, her Roman nose and 
the dark and craggy region in its neighbor- 
hood, but for the placidity of her manner. 
Although it was hard to believe that her 
retiring for the night could be anything but 
a form, so severely wide awake were those 
classical eyes of hers, and so impossible did 
it seem that her rigid nose could yield to any 
relaxing influence, yet her manner of sitting, 
smoothing her uncomfortable, not to say, 
gritty, mittens, (they were constructed of a 
cool fabric like a meat-safe), or of ambling to 
unknown places of destination with her foot in 
her cotton stirrup, was so perfectly serene, that 
most observers would have been constrained 
to suppose her a dove, embodied by some freak 
of nature, in the earthly tabernacle of a bird of 
the hook- beaked order. 

She was a most wonderful woman for 
prowling about the house. How she got 
from story to story, was a mystery beyond 
solution. A lady so decorous in herself and 
so highly connected, was not to be suspected 
of dropping over the bannisters or sliding 
down them, yet her extraordinary facility of 
locomotion, suggested the wild idea. Another 
noticeable circumstance in Mrs. Sparsit was 
that she was never hurried. She would shoot 
with consummate velocity from the roof to the 
hall, yet would be in full possession of her 
breath and dignity on the moment of her ar- 
rival there. Neither was she ever seen by 
human vision to go at a great pace. 

She took very Mndly to Mr. Harthouse, and 
had some pleasant conversation with him soon 
after her arrival. She made him her stately 
curtsey in the garden,- one morning before 
breakfast. 

“It appears but yesterday, sir,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, “that I h^d the honor of receiving 
you at the Bank, when you were so good as 
to wish to be made acquainted with Mr. 
Bounderby’s address.” 

“An occasion, I am sure, not to be forgot- 
ten by myself in the course of Ages, said Mr. 
Harthouse, inclining his head to Mrs. Sparsit 
with the most indolent of all possible airs. 

“ We live in a singular world, sir,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit.” 

“ I have had the honor, by a coincidence of 
which I am proud, to have made a remark, 
similar in eflPect, though not so epigrammati- 
cally expressed.” 

“ A singular world, I would say, sir,” pur- 


TIMES. 15] 

sued Mrs. Sparsit ; after acknowledging the 
compliment with a drooping of her dark eye 
brows, not altogether so mild in its expression 
as her voice was in its dulcet tones ; “ aa 
regards the intimacies we form at one time, 
with individuals we were quite ignorant of, at 
another. I recall, sir, that on that occasion 
you went so^ far as to say you were actually 
apprehensive of Miss Gradgrind.” 

“ Your memory does me more honor than 
my insignificance deserves. I availed myself 
of your obliging hints to correct my timidity, 
and it is unnecessary to add that they were 
perfectly accurate. Mrs. Sparsit’s talent for 
— in fact, for anything requiring accuracy — 
with a combination of strength of mind — and 
Family — is too habitually developed to admit 
ot any question.” He was almost falling 
asleep over this compliment ; it took him so 
long to get through, and his mind wandered 
so much in the course of its execution. 

“You found Miss Gradgrind — I really can- 
not call her Mrs. Bounderby ; it’s very absurd 
of me — as youthful as I described her ?” asked 
Mrs. Sparsit, sweetly. 

“You drew her portrait perfectly,” said Mr. 
Harthouse. “Presented her dead image.” 

“Very engaging, sir?” said Mrs. Sparsit, 
causing her mittens slowly to revolve over one 
another. 

“Highly so.” 

“It used to be considered,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, “that Miss Gradgrind was wanting 
in animation, but I confess she appears to me 
considerably and strikingly improved in that 
respect. Ay, and indeed here zs Mr. Boun- 
derby 1” cried Mrs. Sparsit, nodding her 
head a great many times, as if she had been 
talking and thinking of no one else. “How 
do you find yourself this morning sir? Pray 
let us see you cheerful, sir.” 

Now, these persistent assuagements of his 
misery, and lightenings of his load, had by 
this time begun to have the efiect of making 
Mr. Bounderbj softer than usual towards 
Mrs. Sparsit, and harder than usual to most 
other people from his wife downward. So, 
when Mrs. Sparsit said, with forced lightness 
of heart, “You want your breakfast, sir, but 
I dare say Miss Gradgrind will soon be here 
to preside at the table,” Mr. Bounderby 
replied, “If I waited to be taken care of by 
my wife, ma’am, 1 believe you know pretty 
well I should wait till Doomsday, so I’ll trouble 
you to take charge of the teapot.” Mrs. Spar- 
sit complied, and assumed her old position at 
table. 

This again made the excellent woman vastly 
sentimental. She was so humble withal, that 
when Louisa appeared, she rose, protesting 
she never could think of sitting in that place 
under existing circumstances, often as she 
had had the honor of making Mr. Bounderby’s 
breakfast, before Mrs. Gradgrind — she begged 
pardon, she meant to say. Miss Boundeihy 
— she hoped te be excused, but she really 
could not get it right yet, though she trusted 


152 


DICKENS’ NEW STOEIES. 


to become familiar ■with it by and by — bad 
assumed her present position. It was only 
(she observed) because Miss Gradgrind hap- 
pened to be a little late, and Mr. Bounderby’s 
time was so very precious, and she knew it of 
old to be so essential that he should break- 
fast to the moment, that she had taken the 
liberty of complying with his request ; long as 
his will had been a law to her. 

There 1 stop where you are, ma’am,” said 
Mr. Bounderby, “stop where you are I Mrs. 
Bounderby will be very glad to be relieved of 
the trouble, I believe.” 

“Don’t say that, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, 
almost with severity, “because that is very un- 
kind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind 
is not to be you, sir.” 

“You may set your mind at rest, ma’am.— 
You can take it very quietly, can’t you Loo ?” 
said Mr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to his 
wife. 

“Of course. It is of no moment. Why 
should it be of any importance to me ?” 

“ Why should it be of any importance to 
any one, Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am?” said Mr. 
Bounderby, swelling with a sense of slight. 
‘ You attach too much importance to these 
things, ma’am. By George, you’ll be cor- 
rected in some of your notions here. You are 
old fashioned, ma’am. You are behind Tom 
Gradgrind’s children’s time.” 

“What is the matter with you?” asked 
Louisa, coldly surprised. “What has given 
you offence ?” 

“Offence 1” repeated Bounderby. “Do you 
suppose if there was any offence given me, I 
shouldn’t name it, and request to have it cor- 
rected ? I am a straight forward man, I be- 
lieve. I don’t go beating about for side- 
winds.” 

“I suppose no one ever had occasion to think 
you too diffident, or too delicate,” Louisa 
answered him composedly: “I have never 
made that objection to you, either as a child or 
as a woman. I don’t understand what you 
would have.” 

“Have?” returned Mr. Bounderby* “Nothing. 
Otherwise, don’t you. Loo Bounderby, know 
thoroughly well that I, Josiah Bounderby of 
Coketown, would have it ?” 

She looked at him, as he struck the table 
and made the teacups ring, with a proud color 
in her face that was a new change, Mr. Hart- 
house thought. “You are incomprehensible 
this morning,” said Louisa. “Pray take no 
further trouble to explain yourself. I am not 
curious to know your meaning. What does it 
matter 1” 

Nothing more was said on this theme, and 
Mr. Harthouse was soon idly gay on indifferent 
subjects. But, from this day, the Sparsit 
action upon Mr. Bounderby threw Louisa 
and James Harthouse more together, and 
strengthened the dangerous alienations from 
her husband and confidence against him with 
another, into which she had fallen by degrees 
SO fine, that she could not retrace them if she 


tried. But, whether she ever tried or no, lay 
hidden in her own closed heart. 

Mrs. Sparsit was so much affected on this 
articular occasion, that, assisting Mr. Boun- 
erby to his hat after breakfast, and being 
then alone with him in the hall, she 
imprinted a chaste kiss upon his hand, mur- 
mured “my benefactor!” and retired, over- 
whelmed with grief. Yet it is an indul3itable 
fact, within the cognizance of this history, that 
five minutes after he had left the house in the 
self-same hat, the same descendant of the 
Scadgerses and connexion by matrimony of the 
Powlers, shook her right-hand mitten at his 
portrait, made a contemptuous grimace at that 
work of art, and said “Serve you right, you 
Noodle, and I am glad of it I” 

Mr. Bounderby had not been long gone, 
when Bitzer appeared. Bitzer had come down 
by train, shrieking and rattling over the long 
line of arches that bestrode the wild country 
of past and present coal pits, with an express 
from Stone Lodge. It was a hasty note to 
inform Louisa, that Mrs. Gradgrind lay 
very ill. She had never been well, within her 
daughter’s knowledge ; but, she had declined 
within the last few days, had continued sink- 
ing all through the night, and was now as near- 
ly dead, as her limited capacity of being in 
any state that implied the ghost of an inten- 
tion to get out of it, allowed. 

Accompanied by the lightest of porters, fit 
colorless servitor at Death’s door when Mrs. 
Gradgrind knocked, Louisa rumbled to Coke- 
town, over the coalpits past and present, and 
was whirled into its smo% jaws. She dismis- 
sed the messenger to his own devices, and rode 
away to her old home. 

She had seldom been there, since her mar- 
riage. Her father was usually sifting and sift- 
ing at his parliamentary cinder-heap in Lon- 
don (without being observed to turn up many 
precious articles among the rubbish,) and was 
still hard at it in the national dust-yard. Her 
mother had taken it rather as a disturbance 
than otherwise, to be visited, as she reclined 
upon her sofa; young people, Louisa felt her- 
self all unfit for; Sissy she had never softened 
to again, since the night when the stroller’s 
child had raised her eyes to look at Mr. Boun- 
derby’s intended wife. She had no induce- 
ments to go back, and had rarely gone. 

Neither, as she approached her old home 
now, did any of the best influences of old 
home descend upon her. The dreams of 
childhood — its airy fables; its graceful, beauti- 
ful, humane, impossible adornments of the 
world beyond; so good to be believed in 
once, so good to be remembered when out- 
grown, for then the least among them rises to 
the stature of a great charity in the heart, 
suffering little children to come into the midst 
of it, and to keep with their pure hands a gar- 
den in the stony ways of this world, wherein it 
were better for all the children of Adam that 
they should oftener sun themselves, simple and 
trustful, and not worldly-wise — what had she 


IIAED TIMES. 


to do "witli these ? Remembrances of bow she 
had journeyed to the little that she knew, by 
the enchanted roads of what she and millions 
of innocent creatures had hoped and ima- 
gined; of how, first coming upon Reason 
through the tender light of Fancy, she had 
seen it a beneficent god, deferring to gods as 
great as itself: not a grim Idol, cruel and 
cold, with its victims bound hand to foot, and 
its big dumb shape set up with a sightless 
stare, never to be moved by anything but so 
many calculated tons of leverage — what had 
she to do with these ? Her remembrances of 
home and childhood, were remembrances of 
the drying up of every spring and fountain in 
her young heart as it gushed out. The golden 
waters were not there. They were flowing for 
the fertilization of the land where grapes are 
gathered from thorns, and figs from thistles. 

She went, with a heavy, hardened kind of 
sorrow upon her, into the house and into her 
mother’s room. Since the time of her leaving 
home. Sissy had lived with the rest of the 
family on equal terms. Sissy was at her 
mother’s side; and Jane, her sister, now ten or 
twelve years old, was in the room. 

There was great trouble before it could be 
made known to Mrs. Gradgrind that her eldest 
child was there. She reclined, propped up, 
from mere habit, on a couch ; as nearly in her 
old usual attitude, as anything so helpless 
could be kept in. She had positively refused 
to take to her bed ; on the ground that if she 
did, she would never hear the last of it. 

Her feeble voice sounded so far away in 
her bundle of shawls, and the sound of 
another voice addressing her seemed to take 
such a long time in getting down to her ears, 
that she might have been lying at the bottom 
of a well. The poor lady was nearer Truth 
than she ever had been: which had much to do 
with it. 

On being told that Mrs. Bounderby was 
there, she replied, at cross-purposes, that she 
had never called him by that name since he 
married Louisa; that pending her choice of 
an unobjectionable name, she had called him 
J.; and that she could not at present depart 
from that regulation, not being }et provided 
with a permanent substitute. Louisa had sat 
by her for some minutes, and had spoken to 
her often, before she arrived at a clear under- 
standing who it was. She then seemed to 
come to it all at once. 

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Gradgrind, “and 
I hope you are going on satisfactorily to your- 
self. It was all your father’s doing. He set 
his heart upon it. And he ought to know.” 

“I want to hear of you, mother; not of my- 
self.” 

“^011 want to hear of me, my dear? 
That’s something new, I am sure, when any- 
body wants to hear of me. Not at all well, 
Louisa. Very faiut and giddy.” 

“x^re you in pain, dear mother ?” 

“I think there’s a pain somewhere in the 


153 

room,” said Mrs. Gradgrind, “but I couldn’t 
positively say that I have got it.” 

After this strange speech, she lay silent for 
some time. Louisa, holding her hand, could 
feel no pulse ; but kissing it, could see a slight 
thin thread of life in fluttering motion. 

“You very seldom see your sister,” said Mrs. 
Gradgrind. “She grows like you. I wish you 
would look at her. Sissy, bring her here.” 

She was brought, and stood with her hand 
in her sister’s. Louisa had observed her with 
her arm round Sissy’s neck, and she felt the 
difference of this approach. 

“ Do you see the likeness, Louisa ?” 

“ Yes, mother. I should think her like me. 
But”-^ 

“Eh? Yes, I always say so,” Mrs. Gr?id- 
grind cried, with unexpected quickness. “ And 
that reminds me. I want to speak to you, my 
dear. Sissy, my good girl, leave us alone a 
minute.” 

Louisa had relinquished the hand ; had 
thought that her sister’s was a bet^ and 
brighter face than hers had ever been ; had 
seen in it, not without a rising feeling of 
resentment, even in that place and at that 
time, something of the gentlene^'S of the other 
face in the room; the sweet face with the trust- 
ing eyes, made paler than watching and sym- 
pathy made it, by the rich dark hair. 

Left alone with her mother, Louisa saw her 
lying with an awful lull upon her face, like one' 
who was floating away upon some great water, 
all resistance over, content to be carried down 
the stream. She put the shadow of a hand to 
her lips again, and recalled her. 

“You were going to speak to me, mother.” 

“Eh? Yes, to be sure, my dear. You know 
y*bur father is almost always away now, and 
therefore I must write to him about it.” 

“About what, mother? Don’t be troubled. 
About what ?” 

“You must remember, my dear, that when- 
ever I have said anything, on any subject, I 
have never heard the last of it; and conse- 
quently, that I have' long left off saying any- 
thing.” 

“i can hear you, mother.” But, it was only 
by dint of bending down her ear, and at the 
same time attentively watching the lips as they 
moved, that she could link such faint and 
broken sounds into any chain of connexion. 

“You learnt a great deal, Louisa, and so did 
your brother. Ologies of all kinds, from 
morning to night. If there is any Ology left, 
of any description, that has not been worn to 
rags in this house, all I can say is, I hope I 
shall never hear its name.” 

“I can hear you, mother, when you have 
strength to go on.” This, to keep her from 
floating away. 

“But there’s something — not an Ology at 
all — that your father has missed, or forgotten, 
Louisa. I don't know what it is. I have 
often sat with Sissy near me, and thought 
about it. I shall never get it’s name now 
But your father may. It makes me restless. 


154 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


I want to write to him to find out for God’s 
sake, what it is. Give me a pen, give me a 
pen.” 

Even the power of restlessness was gone, 
except from the poor head, which could just 
turn from side to side. 

She fancied, however, that her request had 
been complied with, and that the pen she 
could not have held was in her hand. It 
matters little what figures of wonderful no- 
meaning she began to trace upon her wrap- 
pers. The hand soon stopped in the midst 
of them ; the light that had always been 
feeble and dim behind the weak transparency 
went out; and even Mrs. Gradgrind, emerging 
from the shadow in which man walketh and 
disquieteth himself in vain, took upon her the 
dread solemnity of the sages and patriarchs. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Mrs. Sparsit’s nerves being slow to re- 
cover their tone, the worthy woman made 
a stay of some weeks in duration at Mr. 
Bounderby’s retreat, where, notwithstanding 
her anchorite turn of mind based upon her 
becoming consciousness of her altered station, 
she resigned herself, with noble fortitude, to 
lodging, as one may say, in clover, and feeding 
on the fat of the land. During the whole 
term of this recess from the guardianship of 
the Bank, Mrs. Sparsit was a pattern of con- 
sistency; continuing to take such pity on Mr. 
Bounderby to his face, as is rarely taken on 
man, and to call his portrait a Noodle to its 
face, with the greatest acrimony and con- 
tempt. 

Mr. Bounderby, having got it into his explo- 
sive composition that Mrs. Sparsit was a high- 
ly superior woman to perceive that he had that 
general cross upon him in his deserts (for he 
had not yet settled what it was), and further 
that Louisa would have objected to her as a 
frequent visiter if it had comported with his 
greatness that she should object to anything 
he chose to do, resolved not to lose sight of 
Mrs. Sparsit easily. So, when her nerves were 
strung up to the pitch of again consuming 
sweetbreads in solitude, he said to her at the 
dinner-table, on the day before her depar- 
ture, “I tell you what, ma’am; you shall come 
down here of a Saturday while the fine weather 
lasts, and stay till Monday.” To which Mrs. 
Sparsit returned, in effect, though not of the 
Mahommedan persuasion: “To hear is to 
obey.” 

Now, Mrs. Sparsit]was not a poetical woman ; 
but she took an idea, in the nature of an alle- 
gorical fancy, into her head. Much watching 
of Louisa, and much consequent observation 
of her impenetrable demeanor, which keenly 
whetted and sharpened Mrs. Sparsit’s edge, 
must have given her as it were a lift, in the 
way of inspiration. She created in her mind 
a mighty Staircase, with a dark pit of shame 
and ruin at the bottom; and down these stairs, 


from day to day and hour to hour, she saw 
Louisa coming. 

It became the business of Mrs. Sparsit’s 
life, to look up at the staircase, and to watch 
Louisa coming down. Sometimes slowly, 
sometimes quickly, sometimes several steps 
at one bout, sometimes stopping, never turn- 
ing back. If she had once turned back, it 
might have been the death of Mrs. Sparsit in 
spleen and grief. 

She had been descending steadily, to the 
day, and on the day, when Mr. Bounderby 
issued the weekly invitation recorded above. 
Mrs. Sparsit was in good spirits, and inclined 
to be conversational. 

“ And pray, sir,” said she, “if I may ven- 
ture to ask a question appertaining to any 
subject on which you show reserve — which is 
indeed hardy in me, for I well know you 
have rsason for everything you do— have you 
received intelligence respecting the robbery?” 

“Why, ma’am, no; not yet. Under the cir- 
cumstances, I didn’t expect it yet. Rome 
wasn’t built in a day, ma’am.” 

“Very true, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking 
her head. 

“Nor yet in a week, ma’am.” 

“No, indeed, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, 
with an air of melancholy. 

“In a similar manner,” said Bounderby, “I 
can wait, you know. If Romulus and Remus 
could wait, Josiah Bounderby can wait. They 
were better off in their youth than I was, how- 
ever. They had a she wolf for a nurse; I 
had only a she wolf for a grandmother. She 
didn’t give any milk, ma’am; she gave bruises. 
She was a regular Alderney at that.” 

“Ah 1” Mrs. Sparsit sighed and shuddered. 

“No, ma’am,” continued Bounderby, “1 have 
not heard anything more about it. It’s in 
hand, though; and young Tom, who rather 
sticks to business at present — something new 
for him; he hadn’t the schooling I had — is 
helping. My injunction is, keep it quiet, and 
let it seem to blow over. Do what you like 
under the rose, but don’t give a sign of 
what you’re about; or half a hundred of ’em 
will combine together and get this fellow who 
has bolted, out of reach for good. Keep it 
quiet, and the thieves will grow in confidence 
by little and little, and we shall have ’em.” 

“ Very sagacious indeed, sir,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit. “ V ery interesting. The old woman 
you mentioned, sir ” 

“The old woman I mentioned, ma’am,” 
said Bounderby, cutting the matter short, as it 
was nothing to boast about, “ is not laid hold 
of; but, she may take her oath she will be, if 
that is any satisfaction to her. villanous old 
mind. In the meantime, ma’am, I am of opi- 
nion, if you ask me my opinion, that the less 
she is talked about, the better.” 

That same evening, Mrs. Sparsit, in her 
chamber window, resting from her packing 
operations, looked towards her great staircase 
and saw Louisa still descending. 

She sat by Mr, Harthouse, in an alcove in 


155 


HARD TIMES. 


the garden, talking very low. He stood, lean- 
ing over her, as they whispered together, and 
his face almost touched her hah*. “If not 
quite!” said Mrs. Sparsit, straining her hawk’s 
eyes to the utmost. Mrs. Sparsit was too dis- 
tant to hear a word of their discourse, or even 
to know that they were speaking softly, other- 
wise than from the expression of their figures ; 
but what they said was this : 

“You recollect the man, Mr. Harthouse?” 

“Oh, perfectly!” 

“His face, and his manner, and what he 
said?” 

“Perfectly. And an infinitely dreary person 
he appeared to me to be. Lengthy and prosy 
in the extreme. It was very knowing to hold 
forth, in the humble- virtue school of eloquence; 
but, I assure you I thought at the time, ‘My 
good fellow, you are over-doing this!’” 

“It has been very difficult to me to think iU 
of that man.” 

“My dear Louisa — as Tom says.” Which 
he never did say. “You know no good of the 
fellow?” 

“No, certainly.” 

“Nor of any otW such person?’' 

“How can I,” she returned, witn more of 
her first manner on her than he had lately 
seen, “when I know nothing of them, men or 
women?” 

“My dear Mrs. Bounderby! Then con- 
sent to receive the submissive representation 
of your devoted friend, who knows some- 
thing of several varieties of his excellent 
fellow- creatures, — for excellent they are, I 
have no doubt, in spite of such little foibles 
as always helping themselves to what they 
can get hold of. This fellow talks. Well; 
every fellow talks. His professing morality 
only deserves a moment’s consideration, as 
being a very suspicious circumstance. All 
sorts of humbugs profess morality, from the 
House of Commons to the House of Correction, 
except our people; it really is that exception 
which makes our people quite reviving. You 
saw and heard the case. Here was a com- 
mon man, pulled up extremely short by my 
esteemed friend Mr. Bounderby — who, as we 
know, is not possessed of that delicacy which 
would soften so tight a hand. The common 
man was injured, exasperated, left the house 
grumbling, met somebody who proposed to 
him to go in for some share in this Bank busi- 
ness, went in, put something in his pocket 
which had nothing in it before, and relieved 
his mind extremely. Really he would have 
been an uncommon, instead of a common, 
man, if he had not availed himself of such 
an opportunity. Or he may have made it alto- 
gether, if he had the cleverness. Equally pro- 
bable !” 

“I almost feel as though it must be bad in 
me,” returned Louisa, after sitting thoughtful 
awhile, “to be so ready to agree with you, and 
to be so lightened in my heart by what you 
say.” 

“I only say what is reasonable; nothing 


worse. I have talked it over with my friend 
Tom more than once — of course, I remain on 
terms of perfect confidence with Tom — and he 
is quite of my opinion, and I am quite of his. 
Will you walk ?” 

They strolled away, among the lanes begin- 
ning to be indistinct in the twilight — she lean- 
ing on his arm — and she little thought how 
she was going down, down, down, Mrs. Spar- 
sit’s staircase. 

Night and day, Mrs. Sparsit kept it stand 
ing. When Louisa had arrived at the bottom 
and disappeared in the gulf, it might fall in 
upon her if it would; but, until then, there it 
was to be, a Building, before Mrs. Sparsit ’s 
eyes. And there Louisa always was, upon it. 
Always gliding down, down, down. 

Mrs. Sparsit saw James Harthouse come 
and go; she heard of him here and there; 
she saw the changes of the face he had 
studied; she, too, remarked to a nicety how 
and when it clouded, how and when it cleared; 
she kept her black eyes wide open, with no 
touch of pity, with no touch of compunc- 
tion, all absorbed in interest; but, in the inte- 
rest of seeing her, ever drawing with no hand 
to stay her, nearer and nearer to the bottom 
of this new Giants’ Staircase. 

With all her deference for Mr. Bounderby, 
as contradistinguished from his portrait, 
Mrs. Sparsit had not the smallest intention 
of interrupting the descent. Eager to see it 
accomplished, and yet patient, she waited for 
the last fall as for the ripeness and fulness of 
the harvest of her hopes. Hushed in expect- 
ancy, she kept her wary gaze upon the stairs ; 
and Seldom so much as darkly shook her right 
mitten (with her fist in it), at the figure 
coming down. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

The figure descended the great stairs, 
steadily, steadily ; always verging, like a 
weight in deep water, to the black gulf at the 
bottom. 

Mr. Gradgrind, apprised of his wife’s de- 
cease, made an expedition from London, and 
buried her in a business-like manner. He 
then returned with promptitude to the nation- 
al cinder-heap, and resumed his sifting for the 
odds and ends he wanted, and his throwing of 
the dust about into the eyes of other people 
who wanted other odds and ends — in fact, re- 
sumed his parliamentary duties. 

In the meantime, Mrs. Sparsit kept un- 
winking watch and ward. Separated from 
her staircase, all the week, by the length of 
iron road dividing Coketown from the country 
house, she yet maintained her cat-like obser- 
vation of Louisa, through her husband, through 
her brother, through James Harthouse, 
through the outsides of letters and packets, 
through everything animate and inanimate 
that at any time went near the stairs. — 
“ Your foot on the last step, my lady,” said 
Mrs. Sparsit, apostrophising the descend- 


156 DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


ing figure, with the aid of her threatening 
mitten, “ and all your art shall never blind 
me.” 

Art or nature though, the original stock 
of Louisa’s character or the graft of circum- 
stances upon it, — her curious reserve did 
baffle, while it stimulated, one as sagacious as 
Mrs. Sparsit. There were times when Mr. 
James Harthouse was not sure of her. There 
were times when he could not read the face 
he had studied so long ; and when this lonely 
girl was a greater mystery to him than any 
woman of the world with a ring of satellites 
to help her. 

So the time went on ; until it happened that 
Mr. Lounderby was called away from home 
by business which required his presence else- 
where, for three or four days. It was on a 
Friday that he intimated this to Mrs. Sparsit 
at the Bank, adding : “ But you’ll go down to- 
morrow, ma’am, all the same. You’ll go down 
just as if I was there. It will make no differ- 
ence to you.” 

‘‘ Pray, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, re- 
proachfully, ‘fiet me beg you not to say that. 
Your absence will make a vast difference to 
me, sir, as I think you very well know.” 

‘‘Well, ma’am, then you must get on in my 
absence as well as you can,” said Bounderby, 
not displeased. 

“Mr. Bounderby,” retorted Mrs. Sparsit, 
“your will is to me a law, sir ; otherwise, it 
might be my inclination to dispute your kind 
commands, not feeling sure that it will be quite 
so agreeable to Miss Gradgrind to receive me, 
as it ever is to your own munificent hospitality. 
But you shall say no more, sir. I will go, upon 
your invitation.” 

“Why, when I invite you to my house, 
ma’am,” said Bounderby, opening his eyes, “I 
should hope you want no other invitation.” 

“No indeed, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘T 
should hope not Say no more, sir. I wouldj 
sir, I could see you gay again 1” 

“ What do you mean, ma’am ?” blustered 
Bounderby. 

“Sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, “there was 
wont to be an elasticity in you which I sadly 
miss. Be buoyant, sir I” 

Mr. Bounderby, under the influence of this 
difficult adjuration, backed up by her compas- 
sionate eye, could only scratch his head in a 
feeble and ridiculous manner, and afterwards 
assert himself at a distance, by being heard 
to bully the small-fry of business all the morn- 
ing. 

“Bitzer,” said Mrs. Sparsit that afternoon, 
when her patron was gone on his journey, 
and the Bank was closing, “ present my com- 
pliments to young Mr. Thomas, and ask him 
if he would step up and partake of a lamb 
chop and walnut ketchup, with a glass of 
India ale ?” Young Mr. Thomas being 
usually ready for anything in that way, re- 
turred a gracious answer, and followed on its 
heels. “ Mr. Thomas,” said Mrs. Sparsit, 
“ these plain viands being on table, I thought 


you might be tempted.” “ Thankee, Mrs* 
Sparsit,” said the whelp. And gloomily fell to. 

“ How is Mr. Harthouse, Mr. Tom?” asked 
Mrs. Sparsit. 

“Oh he is all right,” said Tom. 

“ Where may he be at present ?” Mrs. Spar- 
sit asked in a light conversational manner, 
after mentally devoting the whelp to the 
Furies for being so uncommunicative. 

“ He is shooting in Yorkshire,” said Tom. 
“ Sent Loo a basket half as big as a church, 
yesterday.” 

“ The kind of gentleman now,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, sweetly, “ whom one might wager to 
be a good shot ! ” 

“ Crack,” said Tom. 

He had long been a down-looking young 
fellow, but this characteristic had so increased 
of late that he never raised his eyes to any 
face for three seconds together. Mrs. Sparsit 
consequently had ample means of watching 
his looks, if she were so inclined. 

“Mr. Harthouse is a great favorite of mine,” 
said Mrs. Sparsit, “as indeed he is of most peo- 
ple. May we expect to see him again shortly, 
Mr. Tom?” 

“Why, I expect to see him to-morrow,” re- 
turned the whelp. 

“Good newsl” cried Mrs. Sparsit, blandly. 

“I have got an appointment with him to 
meet him in the evening at the station here,” 
said Tom, “and I am going to dine with him 
afterwards, I believe. He is not coming down 
to Nickits’s for a week or so, being due some- 
where else. At least, he says so ; but I shouldn’t 
wonder if he was to stop here over Sunday, 
and stray that way.” 

“Which reminds mel” said Mrs. Sparsit, 
“Would you remember a message to your 
sister, Mr. Tom, if I was to charge you with 
one?” 

“Weill I’ll try,” returned the reluctant 
whelp, “if it isn’t a long un.” 

“ It is merely my respectful compliments,” 
said Mrs. Sparsit, “and I fear I may not 
trouble her with my society this week ; being 
still a little nervous, and better perhaps by my 
poor self.” 

“Oh! If that’s all,” observed Tom, “it 
wouldn’t matter much, even if I was to forget 
it, for Loo’s not likely to think of you unless 
she sees you.” 

Having paid for his entertainment with this 
agreeable compliment, he relapsed into a 
hangdog silence until there was no more India 
ale left, when he said, “ Well, Mrs. Sparsit, I 
must be off!” and went off. 

Next day, Saturday, Mrs, Sparsit sat at her 
window all day long : looking at the custom- 
ers coming in and out, watching the postmen, 
keeping an eye on the general traffic of the 
street, revolving many things in ber mind, 
but, above all, keeping her attention on her 
staircase. The evening come, she put on her 
bonnet and shawl, and went quietly out : hav- 
ing her reasons for hovering in a furtive way 
about the station by which a passenger would 


HARD 

arrive from Yorksliire, and for preferring to 
peep into it round pillars and corners, and out 
of ladies’ waiting-room windows, to appearing 
in its precincts openly. 

Tom was in attendance, and loitered about 
until the expected train came in. It brought 
no Mr. Harthouse. Tom waited until the 
crowd had dispersed, and the bustle was 
over; and then referred to a posted list of 
trains, and took counsel with porters. That 
done, he strolled away idly, stopping in the 
street and looking up it and down it, and 
lifting his hat off and putting it on again, and 
yawning, and stretching himself, and exhibit- 
ing all the symptoms of mortal weariness to 
be expected in one who had still to wait until 
the next train should come in, an hour and 
forty minutes hence. 

“ This is a device to keep him out of the 
way,” said Mrs. Sparsit, starting from the dull 
ofl&ce window whence she had watched him 
last. “ Harthouse is with his sister now I” 

It was the conception of an inspired mo- 
ment, and she shot off with her utmost swift- 
ness to work it out. The station for the coun- 
try house was at the opposite end of the to<vn; 
the time was short, the road not easy ; but she 
was so quick in pouncing on a disengaged 
coach, so quick in darting out of it, producing 
her money, seizing her ticket, and diving into 
the train, that she was borne along the arches 
spanning the land of coal-pits past and present, 
as if she had been caught up in a cloud and 
whirled away. 

All the journey, immovable in the air 
though never left behind ; plain to the dark 
eyes of her mind, as the electric wires which 
ruled a colossal strip of music-paper out of the 
evening sky, were plain to the dark eyes of her 
body ; Mr. Sparsit saw her staircase, with the 
figure coming down. Very near the bottom 
now. Upon the brink of the abyss. 

An overcast September evening, just at 
nightfall, saw beneath its drooping eyelid Mrs. 
Sparsit glide out of her carriage, pass down 
the wooden steps of the little station into a 
stony road, cross it into a green lane, and be- 
come hidden in a summer growth of leaves 
and branches. One or two late birds, sleepily 
chirping in their nests, and a bat heavily 
crossing and recrossing her, and the reek of 
her own tread in the thick dust that felt like 
velvet, were all Mrs. Sparsit heard or saw un- 
til she very softly closed a gate. 

She went up to the house, keeping within 
the shrubbery, and went round it, peeping 
between the leaves at the lower windows. 
Most of them were open, as they usually were 
in such warm weather, but there were no lights 
yet, and all was silent. She tried the garden 
with no better effect. She thought of the 
wood, and stole towards it, heedless of long 
grass and briers; of worms, snails and slugs, 
and all the creeping things that be.^ With her 
dark eyes and her hook nose warily in advance 
of her, Mrs. Sparsit softly crushed her way 
through the thick undergrowth, so intent 


TIMES. 157 

upon her object that she probably would have 
done no less, if the wood had been a wood of 
adders. 

Hark! 

The smaller birds might have tumbled out 
of their nests, fascinated by the glittering of 
Mrs. Sparsit’s eyes in the gloom, as she stopped 
and listened. 

Low voices close at hand. His voice, and 
hers. The appointment was a device to keep 
the brother away 1 There they were yonder, 
by the felled tree. 

Bending low among the dewy grass, Mrs. 
Sparsit advanced closer to them. She drew 
herself up, and stood behind a tree, like Ro- 
binson Crusoe in his ambuscade against the 
savages ; so near to them that at a spring, 
and that no great one, she could have 
touched them both. He was there secretly, 
and had not shown himself at the house. 
He had come on horseback, and must have 
assed through the neighboring fields ; for his 
orse was tied to the meadow side of the fence, 
within a few paces. 

“My dearest love,” said he, “what could I 
do? Knowing you were alone, was it possible 
that I could stay away ?” 

“ You may hang your head, to make your- 
self the more attractive ; I don’t know what 
they see in you when you hold it up,” thought 
Mrs. Sparsit ; “ but you little think, my dear- 
est love, whose eyes are on you I” 

That she hung her head, was certain. She 
urged him to go away, she commanded him 
to go away ; but she neither turned her face 
to him, nor raised it. Y et it was remarkable 
that she sat as still, as ever the amiable woman 
in ambuscade had seen her sit, at any period 
in her life* Her hands rested in one another, 
like the hands of a statue ; and even her man- 
ner of speaking was not hurried. 

“My dear child,” said Harthouse ; Mrs. 
Sparsit saw with delight that his arm embraced 
her; “will you not bear with my society for a 
little while ?” 

“Not here.” 

“Where, Louisa?” 

“Not here.” 

“But we have so little time to make so 
much of, and I have come so far, and am alto- 
gether so devoted, and distracted. There 
never was a slave at once so devoted and ill- 
used by his mistress. To look for your sunny 
welcome that has warmed me into life, and to 
be received in your frozen manner, is heart- 
rending.” 

“ Am I to say again, that I must be left to 
myself here ?” 

“ But we must meet, my dear Louisa. Where 
shall we meet ?” 

They both started. The listener started 
guiltily, too ; for she thought there was another 
listener among the trees. It was only rain, 
beginning to fall fast, in heavy drops. 

“ Shall I ride up to the house a few minutes 
hence, innocently supposing that its master is 
at-home and will be charmed to receive me?” 


158 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


“ No I” 

“ Your cruel commands are implicitly to be 
obeyed ; though I am the most unfortunate 
fellow in the world, I believe, to have been 
insensible to all other women, and to have 
fallen prostrate at last under the foot of the 
most beautiful, and the most engaging, and the 
most imperious. My dearest Louisa, I cannot 
go myself, or let you go, in this hard abuse of 
your power.” 

Mrs. Sparsit saw him detain her with his en- 
circling arm, and heard him then and there, 
within her (Mrs. Sparsit’s) greedy hearing, 
tell her how he loved her, and how she was 
the stake for which he ardently desired to 
play away all that he had in life. The objects 
he had lately pursued, turned worthless beside 
her ; such success as was almost in his grasp, 
he flung away from him like the dirt it was, 
compared with her. Its pursuit, neverthe- 
less, if it kept him near her, or its renuncia- 
tion if it took him from her, or flight if she 
shared it, or secresy if she commanded it, or 
any fate, or every fate, all was alike to him, so 
that she was true to him, — ^the man who had 
seen how cast away she was, whom she had 
inspired at their first meeting with an admira- 
tion and interest of which he had thought 
himself incapable, whom she had received into 
her confidence, who was devoted to her and 
adored her. All this, and more, in his hurry, 
and in hers, in the whirl of her own gratified 
malice, in the dread of being discovered, in the 
rapidly increasing noise of heavy rain among 
the leaves, and a thunder-storm rolling up — 
Mrs. Sparsit received into her mind ; set off with 
such an unavoidable halo of confusion and 
indistinctness, that when at length he climbed 
the fence and led his horse away, she was not 
sure where they were to meet, or when, except 
that they had said it was to be that night. 

But one of them yet remained in the dark- 
ness before her ; and while she tracked that 
one, she must be right. “ Oh, my dearest 
love,” thought Mrs. Sparsit, “ you little think 
ho w well attended you are I” 

Mrs. Sparsit saw her out of the wood, and 
saw her enter the house. What to do next ? 
It rained now, in a sheet of water. Mrs. 
Sparsit’s white stockings were of many colors, 
green predominating ; prickly things were in 
her shoes ; caterpillars slung themselves, in 
hammocks of their own making, from various 
parts of her dress; rills ran Irom her bonnet, 
and her Roman nose. In such condition Mrs. 
Sparsit stood hidden in the density of the 
shrubbery, considering what next ? 

Lo, Louisa coming out of the house ! Has- 
tily cloaked and muffled, and stealing away. 
She elopes ! She falls from the lowermost 
stair, and is swallowed up in the gulf! 

Indifferent to the rain, and moving with a 
quick determined step, she struck into a side- 
path parallel with the ride. Mrs. Sparsit fol- 
lowed in the shadow of the trees, at but a 
short distance ; for it was not easy to keep a | 


figure in view going quickly through the um- 
brageous darkness. 

When she stopped to close the side-gate 
without noise, Mrs. Sparsit stopped. When 
she went on, Mrs. Sparsit went on. She went 
by the way Mrs. Sparsit had come, emerged 
from the green lane, crossed the stony road, 
and ascended the wooden steps to the railroad. 
A train for Coketown would come through pre- 
sently, Mrs. Sparsit knew ; so she understood 
Coketown to be her first place of destination. 

In Mrs. Sparsit’s limp and streaming state, 
no extensive precautions were necessary to 
change her usual appearance ; but, she stopped 
under the lee of the station wall, tumbled her 
shawl into a new shape, and put it on over 
her bonnet. So disguised, she had no fear of 
being recognised when she followed up the 
railroad steps, and paid her money in the small 
office. Louisa sat waiting in a corner. Mrs. 
Sparsit sat waiting in another corner. Both 
listened to the thunder, which was loud, and to 
the rain, as it washed off the roof, and pattered 
on the parapets of the arches. Two or three 
lamps were rained and blown out; so, both saw 
the lightning to advantage as it quivered and 
zig-zaged on the iron tracks. 

The seizure of the station with a fit of 
trembling, gradually deepening to a complaint 
of the heart, announced the train. Fire and 
steam, and smoke, and red light ; a hiss, a 
crash, a bell, and a shriek ; Louisa put into 
one carriage, Mrs. Sparsit put into another; 
the little station a desert speck in the thunder- 
storm. 

Though her teeth chattered in her head 
from wet and cold, Mrs. Sparsit exulted 
hugely. The figure had plunged down the 
precipice, and she felt herself, as it were, at- 
tending on the body. Could she. who had 
been so active in the getting up of the funeral 
triumph, do less than exult? “She will be 
at Coketown long before him,” thought Mrs. 
Sparsit, “ though his horse is never so good. 
Where will she wait for him ? And where 
will they go together ? Patience. We shall 
see.” 

The tremendous rain occasioned infinite 
confusion, when the train stopped at its des- 
tination. Gutters and pipes had burst, drains 
had overflowed, and streets were under water. 
In the first instant of alighting, Mrs. Sparsit 
turned her distracted eyes towards the wait- 
ing coaches, which were in great request. 
“ She will get into one,” she considered, “ and 
will be away before I can tollow in another. 
At all risks of being run over, I must see the 
number, and hear the order given to the 
coachman.” 

But, Mrs. Sparsit was wrong in her calcu- 
lation. Louisa got into no coach, and was 
already gone. The black eyes kept upon the 
railroad-carriage in which she had travelled, 
settled upon it a moment too late. The door 
not being opened after several minutes, Mrs. 
Sparsit passed it and repassed it, saw nothing, 
looked in, and found it empty. Wet through 


HARD 

and through ; ■with her feet squelching and 
squashing in her shoes whenever she moved} 
with a rash of rain upon her classical visage } 
with a bonnet like an over-ripe fig } with all 
her clothes spoiled ; with damp impressions 
of every button, string, and hook-and-eye she 
wore, printed off upon her highly- connected 
back } with a stagnant verdure on her general 
exterior, such as accumulates on an old park 
fence in a mouldy lane } Mrs. Sparsit had no 
resource but to burst into tears of bitterness 
and say, “I have lost her I” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

The national dustmen, after entertaining 
one another with a great many noisy little 
fights among themselves, had dispersed for the 
present, and Mr. Gradgrind was at home for 
the vacation. 

He sat writing in the room with the deadly- 
statistical clock, proving something no doubt 
— probably, in the main, that the Good Sama- 
ritan was a Bad Economist. The noise of the 
rain did not disturb him much} but jt attract- 
ed his attention sufficiently to make him raise 
his head sometimes, as if he were rather re- 
monstrating with the elements. When it thun- 
dered very loudly, he glanced towards Coke- 
town, having in his mind that some of the tall 
chimneys might be struck by lightning. 

The thunder was rolling into distance, and 
the rain was pouring down like a deluge, when 
the door of his room opened. He looked round 
the lamp upon his table, and saw with amaze- 
ment, his eldest daughter. 

“ Louisa I” 

‘‘ Father, I want to speak to you,” 

“What is the matter? How strange you 
look ! And good Heaven,” said Mr. Grad- 
grind, wondering more and more, “have you 
come here exposed to this storm ?” 

- She put her hands to her dress, as if she 
hardly knew. “Yes.” Then she uncovered 
her head, and letting her cloak and hood fall 
where they might, stood looking at him : so 
colorless, so dishevelled, so defiant and despair- 
ing, that he was afraid of her. 

“What is it? I conjure you, Louisa, tell 
me what is the matter.” 

She dropped into a chair before him, and 
put her cold hand on his arm. 

“Father, you have trained me from my 
cradle.” 

, “Yes, Louisa.” 

“ I curse the hour in which I was born to 
such a destiny.” 

He looked at her in doubt and dread, 
vacantly repeating, “ Curse the hour ? Curse 
the hour ?” 

- “ Ho .v could you give me life, and take from 
.me all the inappreciable things that raise it 
from the state of conscious death ? Where 
are the graces of my soul ? W here are the 
sentiments of my heart ? What have you 
done, 0 faiher what have you done, with the 


TIMES. 159 

gardefr that should have bloomed once, in this 
great wilderness here !” 

She struck herself with both her hands upon 
her bosom. 

“ If it had ever been here, its ashes alone 
would save me from the void in which my 
whole life sinks. I did not mean to say this; 
but, father, you remember the last time we 
conversed in this room ?” 

He had been so wholly unprepared for 
what he heard now, that it was with diffi- 
culty he answered, “Yes, Louisa.” 

“What has risen to my lips now, would have 
risen to my lips then, if you had given me a 
moment’s help. I don’t reproach you, father. 
What you have never nurtured in me, you 
have never nurtured in yourself} but 0 ! if you 
had only done so long ago, or if you had only 
neglected me, what a much happier creature 
I should have been this day 1” 

On hearing this, after all his care, he bowed 
his head upon his hand and groaned aloud. 

“Father, if you had known, when we were 
last together here, what even I feared while I 
strove against it — as it has been my task from 
infancy to strive against every natural prompt- 
ing that has arisen in my heart } if you had 
known that there lingered in my breast, sen- 
sibilities, affections, weaknesses, capable of 
being cherished into strength, defying all the 
calculations ever made by man, and no more 
known to his arithmetic than his Creator is, 
— would you have given me to the husband 
whom I am now sure that I hate ?” 

He said, “No. No, my poor child.” 

“Would you have doomed me, at any time, 
to the frost and blight that have hardened and 
spoiled me? Would you have robbed me — for 
no one’s enrichment — only for the greater de- 
solation of this world — of the immaterial part 
of my life, the spring and summer of my be- 
lief, my' refuge from "what is sordid and bad in 
the real things around me, my school in which 
I should have learned to be more humble and 
more trusting with them, and to hope in mj 
little sphere to make them better ?” 

“0 no, no. No, Louisa.” 

“Yet, father, if I had been stone blind } if I 
had groped my way by my sense of touch, and 
had been free, while I knew the shapes and 
surfaces of things, to exercise my fancy some- 
what, in regard to them ; I should have been 
a million times wiser, happier, more loving, 
more contented, more innocent and human 
in all good respects, than I am with the eyes 
I have. Now, hear what I have come to 
say.” 

He moved to support her with his arm. She 
rising as he did so, they stood close together } 
she with a hand upon his shoulder, looking 
fixedly in his face. 

With a hunger and thirst upon me, father, 
which have never been for a moment appeased } 
with an ardent impulse towards some region 
where rules, and figures, and definitions were 
not quite absolute} 1 have grown uj), battling 
every inch of my way.” 


160 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


“ I never knew you were unhappy, my child.” 

“Father, I always knew it. In this strife I 
have almost repulsed and crushed my better 
angel into a demon. What I have learned 
has left me doubting, misbelieving, despising, 
regretting, what I have not learned ; and my 
dismal resource has been to think that life 
would soon go by, and that nothing in it 
could be worth the pain and trouble of a 
contest.” 

“ And you so young, Louisa 1 ” he said with 
pity. 

And I so youHg. In this condition, father 
— for I show you now, without fear or favor, 
the ordinary deadened state of my mind as I 
know it — you proposed my husband to me. I 
took him. I never made a pretence to him 
or you that I loved him. I knew, and, father, 
you knew, and he knew, that I never did. I 
was not wholly indifferent, for I had a hope of 
being pleasant and useful to Tom. I made 
that wild eseape into something visionary, 
and have gradually found out how wild it was. 
But Tom had been the subject of all the little 
imaginative tenderness of my life 5 perhaps he 
became so because I knew so well how to pity 
him. It matters little now, except as it may 
dispose you to think more leniently of his er- 
rors.” 

As her father held her in his arm, she put 
ner other hand upon his other shoulder, and 
still looking fixedly in his face, went on. 

“When I was irrevocably married, there rose 
up into rebellion against the tie, the old strife, 
made fiercer by a*Il those causes of disparity 
which arise out of our two individual natures, 
and which no general laws shall ever rule or 
state for me, father, until they shall be able to 
direct the anatomist where to strike his knife 
into the secrets of my soul.” 

“ Louisa 1 ” he said, and said imploringly ; 
for he well remembered what had passed be- 
tween them in their former interview. 

“ I do not reproach you, father, I make no 
complaint. I am here with another object.” 

“ What can I do, child ? Ask me what you 
will.” 

“ I am coming to it. Father, chance then 
threw into my way a new acquaintance ; a 
man such as I had had no experience of 5 
used to the world ; light, polished, easy ; 
making no pretences; avowing the low esti- 
mate of everything, that I was half afraid to 
form in secret; conveying to me almost imme- 
diately, though I don’t know how or by what 
degrees, that he understood me, and read my 
thoughts. I could not find that he was worse 
than I. Taere seemed to be a near affinity 
between us. I only wondered it should be 
worth his while, who cared for nothing else, to 
care so much for me.” 

“ For you, Louisa !” 

Her father might instinctively have loosened 
his hold, but that he felt her strength departing 
from her, and saw a wild dilating fire in the 
eyes steadfastly regarding him. 

* “ I say nothing of his plea for claiming my 


confidence. It matters very little how ha 
gained it. Father, he did gain it. What you 
know of the story of my marriage, he soon 
knew, just as well.” 

Her father’s face was ashy white, and he 
held her in both his arms. 

“ I have done no worse, I have not dis- 
graced you. But if you ask me whether I 
have loved him, or do love him, I tell you 
plainly, father, that it may be so. I don’t 
know 1” 

She took her hands suddenly from his 
shoulders and pressed them both upon her side; 
while in her face, not like itself — and in her 
figure, drawn up, resolute to finish by a last 
effort what she had to say — the feelings long 
suppressed broke loose. 

“ This night, my husband being away, he 
has been with me, declaring himself my 
lover. This minute he expects me, for I could 
release myself of his presence by no other 
means. I do not know that I am sorry, I do 
not know that I am ashamed, I do not know 
that I am degraded in my own esteem. All 
that I know is, your philosophy and your 
teaching will not save me. Now, father, you 
have brought me to this. Save me by some 
other means 1” 

He tightened his hold in time to prevent her 
sinking on the floor, but she cried out in a ter- 
rible voice, “I shall die if you hold me I Let 
me fall upon the ground 1” And he laid her 
down there, and saw the pride of his heart and 
the triumph of his system, lying, an insensible 
heap, at his feet. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Louisa awoke from a torpor, and her eyes 
languidly opened on her old bed at home, and 
her old room. Tt seemed, at first, as if all 
that had happened since the days when these 
objects were familiar to her were the shadows 
of a dream; but gradually as the objects be- 
came more real to her sight, the events be- 
came more real to her mind. 

She could scarcely move her head for pain 
and heaviness, her eyes were strained and 
sore, and she was very weak. A curious 
passive inattention had such possession of 
her that the presence of her little sister in the 
room did not attract her notice for some 
time. Even when their eyes had met, and 
her sister had approached the bed, Louisa lay 
for minutes looking at her in silence, and 
suffering her timidly to hold her passive hand, 
before she asked : 

“When was I brought to this room ?” 

“Last night, Louisa.” 

“ Who brought me here ? ” 

“ Sissy, I believe.” 

“ Why do you believe so ? ” 

“ Because I found her here this morning. 
She did’nt come to my bedside to wake me, 
as she always does, and I went to look for her. 
She was not in her own room either, and I 
went looking for her all over the house until I 


HARD TIMES. 


found her here, taking care of you and cooling 
our head. Will you see father ? Sissy said 

was to tell him when you woke.” 

“ What a beaming face you have, Jane I ” 
said Louisa, as her young sister — timidly still 
— bent down to kiss her. 

“ Have I ? I am very glad you think so. 
I am sure it must be Sissy’s doing.” « 

The arm Louisa had begun to twine about 
her neck unbent itself. “ You can tell father, 
if you will.” Then staying her a moment, 
she said, “ It was you who made my room so 
cheerful, and gave it this look of welcome ? ” 

“ Oh no, Louisa, it was done before I came. 
It was ” 

Louisa turned upon her pillow, and heard 
no more. When her sister had withdrawn, she 
turned her head back again, and lay with her 
face towards the door until it opened and her 
father entered. 

He had a jaded anxious look upon him, and 
his hand, usually steady, trembled in hers. He 
sat down at the side of the bed, tenderly ask- 
ing how she was, and dwelling on the necessity 
of her keeping very quiet after her agitation 
and exposure to the weather last night. He 
spoke in a subdued and troubled voice; very 
different from his usual dictatorial manner, 
and was often at a loss for words. 

My dear Louisa. My poor daughter.” — 
He was so much at a loss at that plaoe, that 
he stopped altogether. He tried again. 

“ My unfortunate child.” The place was so 
difficult to get over, that he tried again. 

‘‘It would be hopeless for me, Louisa, to en- 
deavor to tell you how overwhelmed I have 
been, and still am, by what broke upon me 
for the first time last night. The ground on 
which I stand has ceased to be solid under 
my feet. The only support on which I leaned, 
and the strength of which it seemed and still 
does seem impossible to question, has given 
way in an instant. I am stunned by these 
discoveries. I have no selfish meaning in 
what I say, but I find the shock of what broke 
upon me last night, to be very heavy indeed.” 

She could give him no comfort herein. She 
had suffered the wreck of her whole life upon 
the rock. 

“ I will not say, Louisa, that if you had by 
any happy chance, undeceived me some time 
ago, it would have been better for us both ; 
better for your peace, and better for mine. 
For I am sensible that it has not been a pait 
of my system to invite any confidence of that 
kind. I have proved my — my system to my- 
self, and I have rigidly administered it, and I 
must bear the responsibility of its failures. I 
only entreat you to believe, my favorite child, 
that I have meant to do right.” 

He said it earnestly, and to do him justice 
he had. In gauging fathomless deeps with 
his little mean excise-rod, and in staggering 
over the universe with his rusty stifif-legged 
compasses, he had meant to do great things. 
Within the limits of his short tether he had 
tumbled about, annihilating the flowers of 


161 

existence with greater singleness of purpose 
than many of the blatant personages whose 
company he kept. 

“lam well assured of what you say, father. 
I know I have been your favorite child ; I 
know you have intended to make me happy. 
I have never blamed you, and I never shall.” 

He took her outstretched hand, and retained 
it in his. 

“ My dear, I have remained all night at my 
table, pondering again and again on what has 
so painfully passed between us. When I con- 
sider your character; when I consider that what 
has been known to me for hours has been con- 
cealed by you for years ; when I consider under 
what immediate pressure it has been forced 
from you at last; 1 come to the conclusion that 
I cannot but mistrust myself.” 

He might have added more than all, when 
he saw the face now looking at him. He did 
add it in effect, perhaps, as he softly moved 
her scattered hair from her forehead with the 
palm of his hand. Such little actions, slight 
in another man, were very noticeable in him, 
and his daughter received them as if they had 
been words of contrition. 

“But,” said Mr. Gradgrind,* slowly, and 
with hesitation, as well as with a wretched 
sense of helplessness, “if I see reason to mis- 
trust myself for the past, Louisa, I should also 
mistrust myself for the present and the future. 
To speak unreservedly to you, I do. I am 
far from feeling convinced now, however dif- 
ferently I might have felt only this time yes- 
terday, that I am fit for the trust you repose 
in me ; that I know how to respond to the ap- 
peal you have come home to make to me ; 
that I have the right instinct — supposing it for 
the moment to be some quality of that na- 
ture — ^how to help you and to set you right, my 
child.” 

She had turned upon her pillow, and lay 
with her face upon her arm, so that he could 
not see it. All her wildness and passion had 
subsided ; but, though softened, she was not 
in tears. Her father was changed in nothing 
so much as in the respect that he would have 
been glad to see her in tears. 

• “Some persons hold,” he pursued, still 
hesitating, “ that there is a wisdom of thl 
Head, and that there is a wisdom of the 
Heart. I have not supposed so, but, as ' 
have said, I mistrust myself now. I have 
supposed the Head to be all-sufficient. It 
may not be all-sufficient ; how can I venture 
this morning to say that it is ? If that other 
kind of wisdom should be what I have neg- 
lected, and should be the instinct that is 
wanted, Louisa ” 

He suggested it very doubtfully, as if he 
were half unwilling to admit it even now. 
She made him no answer, lying before him 
on her bed, still half-dressed, much as he had 
seen her lying on the floor of his room last 
night. 

“ Louisa,” and his hand rested on her hair 
again, “ I have been absent fi:om here, my 


1G2 DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


dear; a good deal of late, and though your 
sister’s training has been pursued according 
to — the system,” he appeared to come to that 
word with great reluctance always, “ it has 
necessarily been modified by daily associations 
begun, in her case, at a very early age. I ask 
you — ignorantly and humbly, my daughter — 
for the better, do you think ?” 

“ Father,” she replied, without stirring, “ if 
any harmony has been awakened in her young 
breast that was mute in mine until it turned to 
discord, let her thank God for it, and go upon 
her happier way, taking it as her greatest bles- 
sing that she has avoided my way. 

“ 0 my child, my child 1” he said, in a for- 
lorn manner, “ I am an unhappy man to see 
you thus I What avails it to me that you do 
not reproach me, ifl bitterly reproach myself 1” 
He bent his head and spoke low to her. “ Lou- 
isa, I have a misgiving that some change may 
have been slowly working about me by mere 
love and gratitude;' that what the Head had 
left undone, and could not do, the Heart may 
have been doing silently. Can it be so ?” 

She made him no reply. 

“ I am not too proud to believe it, Louisa. 
How could I be arrogant, and you before me 1 
Can it be so? Is it so, my dear?” 

He looked upon her, once more, lying cast 
away there, and without another word went 
out of the room. He had not been long gone 
when she heard a light tread near the door, 
and knew that some one stood beside her. 

She did not raise her head. A dull afiger 
that she'' should be seen in her distress, and 
that the involuntary look she had so resented 
should come to this fulfilment, smouldered 
within her like an unwholesome fire. All 
closely imprisoned forces rend and destroy. 
The air that would be healthful to the earth, 
the water that would enrich it, the heat that 
would ripen it, tear it when caged up. So in 
her bosom even now. The strongest qualities 
she possessed, long turned’ upon themselves, 
became a heap of obduracy, that rose against 
a friend. 

It was well that soft touch came upon her 
neck, and that she understood herself to be 
supposed to have fallen asleep. The sym- 
pathetic hand did not claim her resentment. 
Let it lie there, let it lie. 

So it lay there, warming into life a crowd 
of gentler thoughts, and she lay still. As 
she softened with the quiet and the conscious- 
ness of being so watched, some tears made 
their way into her eyes. The face stooped 
closer to her, and she knew that there were 
tears upon it too, and she the cause of them. 

As Louisa feigned to rouse herself, and sat 
up. Sissy retired, so that she stood placidly at 
the bed side. 

“I hope I have not disturbed you. I have 
come to ask if you will let me stay with you.” 

“Why should you stay with me ? My sister 
will miss you. You are everything to her.” 

“Am I?” returned Sissy, smiling and shak- 


ing her head. “I would be something to you’ 
dear Miss Louisa, if I might.” 

“What ?” said Louisa, almost sternly. 

“Whatever you want most, if I could be 
that. At all events I would like to try to be 
as near it as I can. And however far off that 
may be, I will never tire of trying. Will you 
let me?” 

“ My father sent you to ask me ?” 

“No indeed,” replied Sissy. “He told me 
that I might come in now, but he sent me 
away from the room this morning — or at least 
— ” She hesitated and stopped. 

“At least, what?” said Louisa, with her 
searching eyes upon her. 

“I thought it best myself that I should be 
sent away, for I felt very uncertain whether 
you would like to find me here.” 

“ Have I always hated you so much ?” 

“I hope not, for I have always been truly 
attached to you, and deeply wishful that you 
should know it. But you changed to me a 
little, shortly before you left home. Not that 
I wondered at it. You knew so much, and I 
knew so little ; and it was so natural in many 
ways, going as you were among other friends, 
that I had nothing to complain of, and was not 
at all hurt.” 

Her color rose as she said it modestly and 
hurriedly. Louisa understood the loving 4)re- 
tence, and her heart smote her. 

“ May I try ?” said Sissy, emboldened to 
raise her hand to the neck that was insensibly 
drooping towards her. 

Louisa, taking down the hand that would 
have embraced her in another moment, held 
it tight in one of hers, and answered : 

“First, Sissy, you should know what I am. 
I am so proud and so hardened, so confused 
and troubled, so resentful and unjust to every 
one and to myself, that everything is stormy, 
dark, and wicked to me. Does not that repel 
you ?” 

“No I” 

“I am so unhappy, and all that should have 
made me otherwise is so laid waste, that if I 
had been bereft of sense to this hour, and in- 
stead of being as learned as you think me, had 
to begin to acquire the simplest truths, I could 
not want a guide to peace, contentment, 
honor, all the good of which I am quite de- 
void, more abjectly than I do. Does not that 
repel you ?” 

“Nol”^ 

In the innocence of her brave affection, and 
the trimming up of her old devoted spirit, the 
once deserted girl shone like a beautiful light 
upon the darkness of the other. 

Loulfea raised the hand that it might clasp 
her neck, and join its fellow there. She fell 
upon her knees, and clinging to this stroller’s 
child looked up at her almost with veneration. 

“Forgive me, pity me, help mel Have 
compassion on my great need, and let me lay 
this head of mine upon a loving heart.” 

“0 lay it here 1” cried Sissy. “Lay it here, 
my dear.” 


HARD TIMES. 


Louisa’s tears fell like the blessed rain 
after a long drought. The sullen glare was 
over, and in every drop there was a germ of 
hope and promise for the dried-up ground. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Mr. James Harthouse passed a whole night 
and a day in a state of so much hurry that the 
W orld, with its best glass in its eye, would have 
scarcely recognised him during that insane in- 
terval, as the brother Jem of the honorable 
and jocular member. He was positively agi- 
tated. He several times spoke with an em- 
phasis, similar to the vulgar manner. He 
went in and went out in a most unaccountable 
way, like a man with an object. He rode like 
a highwayman. In a word, he was so horribly 
bored by real existing circumstances, that he 
forgot to go in for boredom in the manner pre- 
scribed by the authorities. 

After putting his horse at Coketown through 
the storm, as if it were a leap, he waited up 
all night; from time to time ringing his bell 
with the greatest fury, charging the porter who 
kept watch with delinquency in withholding 
letters or messages that could not fail to have 
been entrusted to him, and demanding resti- 
tution on the spot. The dawn coming, the 
morning coming, and the day coming, and 
neither message nor letter coming with /^er, 
he went down to the country house. There, 
the report was, Mr. Bounderby away, and Mrs. 
Bound erby in town. Left for town suddenly 
last evening. Not even known to be gone 
until receipt of message, importing that her 
return was not to be expected for thepreseut. 

In these circumstances he had nothing for 
it but to follow her to town. He went to the 
house in town. Mrs. Bounderby not there ; 
not even been heard of. He looked in at the 
Bank. Mr. Bounderby away, and Mrs. Sparsit 
away. Mrs. Sparsit away ? Who could have 
been reduced to sudden extremity for the 
company of that griffin 1 

‘‘ Well 1 I don’t know,” said Tom, who had 
his own reasons for being uneasy about it. 

She was off somewhere at daybreak this 
morning. She’s always full of mystery; I 
hate her. So I do that white chap ; he’s 
always got his blinking eye upon a fellow.” 

“ Where were you last night, Tom?” 

Where was I last night I ” said Tom. 
“ Come I I like that. I was waiting for you, 
Mr. Harthouse, till it came down as I never 
saw it come down before. Where was I too 1 
Where were you, you mean.” 

“ I was prevented from coming — detained.” 

“ Detained!” said Tom. “ Two of us were 
detained. I was detained looking for you till 
I lost every train but the mail. It would have 
been a pleasant job to go down by that on 
such a night, and have to walk home through 
a pond. I was obliged to sleep in town after 
all.” 

« Where?” 


163 

“ Where ? Why, in your bed at Bounder- 
by’s.”^ 

“ Did you see your sister ?” 

“ How the deuce,” returned Tom, staring, 
“ could I see my sister when she was fifteen 
miles off?” 

Cursing these quick retorts of the young gen« 
tleman to whom he was so true a friend, Mr. 
Harthouse disembarrassed himself of that in- 
terview with the smallest conceivable amount 
of ceremony, and debated for the hundredth 
time what all this could mean ? He made only 
one thing clear. It was, that whether she was 
in town or out of town, whether he had been 
premature with her who was so hard to compre- 
hend, or she had lost courage, or they were dis- 
covered, or some mischance or mistake at pre- 
sent incomprehensible had occurred — he must 
remain to confront his fortune, whatever it 
was. The hotel where he was known to live 
when condemned to that region of blackness, 
was the stake to which he was tied. As to all 
the rest — What will be, will be. 

“So, whether I am waiting for a hostile 
message, or an assignation, or a penitent re- 
monstrance, or an impromptu wrestle with my 
friend Bounderby in the Lancashire manner 
— which would seem as likely as anything else 
in the present state of affairs — I’ll dine,” said 
Mr. James Harthouse. “ Bounderby has the 
advantage in point of weight; and if anything 
of a British nature is to come off between us, 
it may as well to be in training.” 

Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing 
himself negligently on a sofa, ordered “ Some 
dinner at six, with a beefsteak in it,” and got 
through the intervening time as well as he 
could. That was not particularly well, for 
he remained in the greatest perplexity, and 
as the hours went on, and no kind of explana- 
tion offered itself, his perplexity augmented at 
compound interest. 

However, he took affairs as coolly as it was 
in human nature to do, and entertained him- 
self with the facetious idea of the training more 
than once. “ It wouldn’t be bad,” he yawned 
at one time, “ to give the waher five shillings 
and throw him.” At another time it occurred 
to him, “Or a fellow of about thirteen or four- 
teen stone might be hired by the hour.” But 
these jests did not tell materially on the after- 
noon or his suspense ; and, sooth to say, they 
both lagged fearfully. 

It was impossible, even before dinner, to 
avoid often walking about in the patterns of 
the carpet, looking out of the window, listen- 
ing at the door for footsteps, and occasionally 
becoming rather hot when they approached 
that room. But after dinner, when the day 
turned to twilight, and the twilight turned to 
night, and still no communication was made 
to him, it began to be, as he expressed it, 
“uncommonly like the Holy Office and slow 
torture.” However, still true to his conviction 
that coolness was the genuine high-breeding, 
(the only conviction he had,) he seized this 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


164 

crisis as the ’opportunity for ordering candles 
and a newspaper. 

He had been trying in vain, for half an 
hour, to read this newspaper, when the waiter 
appeared, and said, at once mysteriously and 
apologetically, 

“ Beg your pardon sir. You’re wanted sir, 
if you please.” 

A general recollection that this was the sort 
of thing the Police said to the swell mob, caus- 
ed Mr. Harthouse to ask the waiter in return, 
with bristling indignation, what the Devil he 
meant by “ wanted ?” 

— “ Beg your pardon, sir. Young lady out- 
side, sir, wished to see you.” 

Outside ? Where ?” 

Outside this door, sir.” 

Giving the waiter to the personage before 
mentioned, as a blockhead duly qualified for 
that consignment, Mr. Harthouse hurried 
into the gallery. A young woman whom he 
had never seen stood there. Plainly dressed, 
very quiet, very pretty. As he conducted her 
into the room and placed a chair for her, he 
observed by the light of the candles, that she 
was even prettier than he had at first believed. 
Her face was innocent and youthful, and its 
expression remarkably pleasant. She was not 
afraid of him^ or in any way disconcerted ; she 
seemed to have her mind entirely pre-oc- 
cupied with occasion of her visit, and to 
have substituted that consideration for herself. 

“ I speak to Mr. Harthouse ?” she said, when 
they were alone. 

‘‘ To Mr. Harthouse. ” He added in his 
mind~“ And you speak to him with the most 
confiding eyes I ever saw; and the most 
earnest voice (though so quiet) I ever heard. ” 

“ If I do not understand — and I do not, sir ” 
— said Sissy, “ what your honor as a gentleman 
binds you to, in other matters the blood real- 
ly rose in his face as she began in these words: 

I am sure I may rely upon it to keep my visit 
secret, and what I am going to say. I will rely 
upon it, if you will tell me I may so far trust 
you. ” 

“ You may, I asure you. ” 

“ I am young, as you see ; I am alone, as 
you see. In coming to you, sir, I have no 
advice or encouragement beyond my own 
hope. ” 

He thought, “ But that is very strong,” as 
he followed the momentary upward glance of 
her eyes. He thought besides, “ This is a 
very odd beginning. I don’t see where we are 
geing.” 

^‘Perhaps,” said Sissy, “you have already 
guessed whom I left just now?” 

“ I have been in the greatest concern and 
uneasiness during the last four-and-twenty 
hours (which have appeared as many years),” 
he returned, “on a lady’s account. The 
hopes I have been encouraged to form that 
you come from that lady do not deceive me, I 
trust.” 

“I left her within an hour.” 

So lately I At ?” 


“ At her father’s.” 

Mr. Harthouse’s face lengthened in spite of 
his coolness, and his perplexity increased. 
“ Then I certainly,” he thought, “ do not see 
where we are going.” 

“ She hurried there last night. She arrived 
there in great agitation, and was insensible 
all through the night. I live at her father’s, 
and was with her. You may be sure, sir, 
you will never see her again as long as you 
live.” 

Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath, and, if 
ever man found himself in the position of not 
knowing what to say, made the discovery 
beyond all question that he, James Hart- 
house, was so circumstanced. The child-like 
ingenuousness with which his visiter spoke, 
her modest fearlessness, her truthfulness, 
which put all artifice aside, her entire for- 
getfulness of herself in the earnest, quiet, hold- 
ing to the object with which she had come ; 
all this, together with her reliance on his eas- 
ily-given promise, which in itself shamed him 
— presented something in which he was so in- 
experienced, and against which he knew his 
usual weapons would fall so powerless ; that 
not a word could he rally to his relief. 

At last he said: 

“So startling an announcement, so confi- 
dently made, and by such lips, is really dis- 
concerting in the last degree. May I be per- 
mitted to inqure if you are charged to convey 
that information to me in those hopeless words 
by the lady of whom we speak ?” 

“I have no charge from her. ” 

“ The drowning man catches at the straw. 
With no disrespect for your judgment, and with 
no doubt of your sincerity, excuse my saying 
that I cling to the belief that there is yet hope 
that I am not condemned to perpetual exile 
from that lady’s presence. ” 

“ There is not the least hope. The first ob- 
ject of my coming here, sir, is to assure you 
that you must believe that there is no more 
hope of your ever speaking with her again than 
there would be if she had died when she came 
home last night. ” 

“ Must believe ? But if I can’t — or if I 
should, by infirmity ©f nature, be obstinate — 
and won’t — ” 

“ It is still true. There is no hope.” 

James Harthouse looked at her with an in- 
credulous smile upon his lips, but her mind 
looked over and beyond him, and the smile 
was quite thrown away. 

He bit his lip, and took a little time for 
consideration. 

“ If it should unhappily appear,” he said, 
“after due pains and duty on my part, that I 
am brought to a position so desolate as this 
banishment, I shall not become the lady’s per- 
secutor. But you said you had no commission 
from her.” 

“ I have only the commission of my love 
for her, and her love for me. I have no 
other trust than that I have been with her 
since she fled home, and that she has given me 


HARD 

he» confidence. I have no further trust than 
thav I know something of her character and 
her marriage. 0, Mr. Harthouse, *1 think you 
had that trust too.” 

He was touched in the cavity where his 
heart should have been, in that nest of addled 
eggs, where the birds of heaven would have 
lived if they had not been whistled away by 
the simple fervor of this reproach. 

“ I am not a moral sort of fellow,” he said, 
and I never make any pretensions to the 
character of a moral sort of fellow. I am as 
immoral as need be, I dare say. At the same 
time, in bringing any distress upon the lady 
who is the subject of the present conversation, 
or in unfortunately compromising her in any 
way; or in committing myself by any ex- 
pression of sentiments towards her, not per- 
fectly reconcilable with — the domestic hearth ; 
or in taking any advantage of her father’s 
being a machine, or of her brother’s being a 
whelp, ©r o£ her husband’s being a bear ; I 
beg to be allowed to assure you that I have 
had no particular evil intentions, but have 
glided on from one step to another with a 
smoothness so entirely diabolical that I had 
not the slightest idea the catalogue was half 
so long until I began to turn it over. When 
I find,” said Mr. James Harthouse, in 
conclusion, “that it is in several volumes.” 

Though he said all this in his frivolous 
way, the way seemed, for that once, a con- 
scious polishing of but an ugly surface. He 
was silent for a moment, and then proceeded 
with a more courtly air, though with traces of 
vexation and disappointment that would not 
be polished out: 

“After what has been just now represented 
to me in a manner I find it impossible to doubt 
-—I really know of hardly any other source 
from which I could have accepted it so readi- 
ly-I feel bound to say to you in whom the 
confidence you have mentioned, has been re- 
posed, that I cannot refuse to contemplate the 
possibility (however unexpected) of my seeing 
the lady no more. I am solely to blame for 
the thing having come to this — and — and I 
cannot say,” he added, rather hard up for a 
general peroration, “ that I have any sanguine 
expectations of ever becoming a moral sort of 
fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral 
sort of fellow, anywhere.” 

Sissy’s face sufficiently showed that her ap- 
peal to him was not finished. 

“You spoke,” he resumed, as she raised her 
eyes to him again, “ of your first object. I 
may assume that there is a second to be men- 
tioned?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Will you oblige me by confiding it?”^ 

“Mr. Harthouse,” returned Sissy, with a 
blending of gentleness and steadiness that 
quite defeated him, and with a perfect con- 
fidence in his being bound to do what she 
required, that held him at a singular disad- 
vantage, “the only reparation that remains 
with you, is to leave here immediately, and 


TIMES. 165 

finally. I am quite sure that you can miti- 
gate in no other way the wrong and harm you 
have done. I am quite sure that it is the only 
compensation you have left in your power to 
make. I do not say that it is much or that it 
is enough, but it is something, and it is neces- 
sary. Therefore, though without any other 
authority than I have given you, and even 
without the knowledge of any other person 
than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart 
from this place to night, under an obligation 
never to return to it.” 

If she had asserted any influence over him 
beyond her simple faith in the truth and 
right of what she said ; if she had concealed 
the least doubt or irresolution, or had har- 
bored for the best purpose any reserve or 
pretence ; if she had shown or felt the light- 
est trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule, 
or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he 
might offer, he would have carried it against 
her at this point. But he could as easily have 
changed a clear sky by looking at it in sur- 
prise as affect her. 

“But do you know,” he asked, quite at a 
loss, “the extent of what you ask? You pro- 
bably are not aware that I am here on a public 
kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, 
but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, 
and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a 
desperate manner? You probably are not 
aware of that, but I assure you it’s the fact.” 

It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. 

“ Besides which,” said Mr. Harthouse, taking 
a turn or two across the room, and biting his 
nails dubiously, “ it’s so alarmingly absurd. It 
would make a man so ridiculous, after going 
in for these fellows, to back out in such an un- 
accountable way.” 

“ I am quite sure,” repeated Sissy, “ that it 
is the only reparation in your power, sir. I 
am quite sure, or I would not have come here.” 

He glanced at her face, and walked about 
again. “Upon my soul, I don’t know what to 
say. So immensely absurd!” 

It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secresy. 
“ If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,” 
he said, stopping again presently, and leaning 
against the chimney-piece, “it could only be in 
the most inviolable confidence.” 

“ I will trust to you, sir,” returned Sissy, 
“ and you will trust to me.” 

His leaning against the chimney-piece re- 
minded him of the night with the whelp. It 
was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow 
he felt as if he were the whelp to-night. He 
could make no way at all. 

“ I suppose a man never was placed in a 
more ridiculous position,” he said, after look- 
ing down, and looking up, and laughing, and 
frowning, and walking off, and walking back 
again. “ But I see no way out of it. What 
will be, will be. This will be, I suppose. I 
must take off myself, I imagine — in short, I 
engage to do it.” 

Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


166 

result, but she was bappy in it, and her face 
beamed brightly. 

“You will permit me to say,” continued 
Mr. James Harthouse, “that I doubt if any 
other ambassador, or ambassadress, could 
have addressed me at the same advantage. — 
I must not only regard myself as being in a 
very ridiculous position, but as being van- 
quished at all points. Will you allow me the 
privilege of remembering my enemy’s name.^” 

“ My name ?” said the ambassadress, blush- 
ing. 

“ The only name I could possibly care to 
know to-night.” 

“Sissy Jupe.” 

“ Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related 
to the family?” 

“ I am only a poor girl,” returned Sissy, 
was separated from my father — he was only 
a stroller — and taken pity on by Mr. Grad- 
grind. I have lived in the house ever since.” 

She was gone. 

“ It wanted this to complete the defeat,” 
said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a 
resigned air, on the sofa, after standing trans- 
fixed a little while, “and now it may be con 
gidered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor 
girl — only a stroller — only James Harthouse 
floored — only James Harthouse a Great Pyra- 
mid of failure.” 

The Great Pyramid put it into his head to 
go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the in- 
stant, and wrote the following note (in appro- 
priate hieroglyphics) to his brother : 

Hear Jack, — All up at Coketown. Bored 
out of the place, and going in for camels. Af- 
fectionately, Jem. 

He rang the bell. 

“ Send my fellow here.” 

“Gone to bed sir.” 

“ Tell him to get up and pack up.” 

He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr. 
Bounderby, announcing his retirement from 
that part of the country, and showing where 
he would be found for the next fortnight. The 
other, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind. 

Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon 
their superscriptions, he had left the tall chim- 
neys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway 
carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark 
landscape. 

■ The moral sort of fellows might suppose 
that Mr. James Harthouse derived some com- 
fortable reflections thereafter from this prompt 
retreat, as one of his few actions that made 
any amends for anything, and as a token to 
himself that he had escaped the climax of a 
very bad business. But it was not so, at all. 
A secret sense of having failed and made him- 
self ridiculous; a dread of what other fellows 
who went in for similar sorts of things, would 
say at his expense if they knew it, so oppressed 
him, that what was about the best passage in 
his life was the one of all others he would not 
have owned to, and that often made him quite 
ashamed of himself. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

The indefatigable Mr. Sparsit, with a vio- 
lent cold upon her, her voice reduced to a 
whisper, and her stately frame so racked by 
continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of 
dismemberment, gave chase to her patron 
until she found him in the metropolis ; and 
there sweeping in upon him at his hotel in 
St. James’s Street, exploded the combustibles 
with which she was charged, and blew up. 
Having executed her mission with infinite 
relish, this high-minded woman then fainted 
away on Mr. Bounderby’s coat-collar. 

Mr. Bounderby’s first procedure was to 
shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to pro- 
gress as she might through various stages of 
suffering on the floor. He next had resource 
to the administration of potent restoratives, 
such as screwing the patient’s thumbs, smiting 
her hands, abundantly watering her face, and 
inserting salt in her mouth. When these at- 
tentions had recovered her (which they speed- 
ily did), he hustled her into a fast train without 
any other refreshments, and carried her back 
to Coketown more dead than alive. 

Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit 
was an interesting spectacle on her arrival 
at her journey’s end ; but considered in any 
other light, the amount of damage she had by 
that time sustained was excessive, and impair- 
ed her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless 
of the wear and tear of her clothes and con- 
stitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, 
Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into 
a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. 

“Now, Tom Gradgrind,” said Bounderby, 
bursting into his father-in-law’s room late at 
night; “here’s a lady here — Mrs. Sparsit — 
you know Mrs. Sparsit — who has something 
to make known to you that will strike you 
dumb.” 

“ You have missed my letter!” exclaimed 
Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. 

“Missed your letter, sir!” bawled Bounder- 
by. “The present time is no time for letters. 
No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of 
Coketown about letters with his mind in the 
state it’s in now.” 

“Bounderby,” said Mr. Gradgrind, in atone 
of temperate remonstrance. “ I speak of a 
very special letter I have written to you, in 
reference to Louisa.” 

“Tom Gradgrind,” replied Bounderby, 
knocking the flat of his hand several times 
with great vehemence on the table, “ I speak 
of a very special messenger that has come to 
me in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, v 
ma’am, stand forward.” 

That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying 
to offer testimony without any voice, and with 
painful gestures expressive of an inflamed 
throat, became so aggravating and underwent 
so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounder- 
by, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm 
and shook her. 

“If you can’t get it out, ma’am,” said Boun- 


HARD 

derby, “leave me to get it out. This is not a 
time for a lady, however highly connected, to 
be totally inaudible and seemingly swallowing 
marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latter- 
ly found herself by accident in a situation to 
overhear a conversation out of doors between 
your daughter and your precious gentleman- 
friend, Mr. James Harthouse.” 

“Indeed?” said Mr. Gradgrind. 

“Ah! Indeed! ” cried Bounderby. “And in 
that conversation ” 

“It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, 
Bounderby. I know what passed.” 

“You do? Perhaps,” said Bounderby, 
staring with all his might at his so quiet and 
assuasive father-in-law, “you know where your 
daughter is at the present time !” 

“Undoubtedly. She is here.” 

“Here ?” 

“ My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to 
restrain these loud outbreaks, on all accounts. 
Louisa is here. The moment she could de- 
tach herself from that interview with the 
erson of whom you speak, and whom I 
eeply regret to have been the means of in 
troducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for 
protection. I myself had not been at home 
many hours, when I received her — here in this 
room. She hurried by the train to town, she 
ran from town to this house through a raging 
storm, and presented herself before me in a 
state of distraction. Of course, she has re- 
mained here ever since. Let me entreat you, 
for your own sake and for hers too, to be more 
quiet.” 

Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for 
some moments in every direction except Mrs. 
Sparsit’s direction, and then abruptly turning 
upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that 
wretched woman : 

“ Now, ma’am ! We shall be happy to hear 
any little apology you may think proper to 
offer, for going about the country at express 
pace, with no other luggage than a Cock and 
a Bull, ma’am.” 

“ Sir,” whispered Mrs. Sparsit, “ my nerves 
are at present too much shaken, and my health 
is at present too much impaired, in your ser- 
vice, to admit of my doing more than taking 
refuge in tears.” 

Which she did. 

“Well, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “with- 
out making any observation to you that may 
not be made with propriety to a woman of 
good family, what I have got to add to that, 
is, that there’s something else in which it 
appears to me you may take refuge, namely, 
a coach. And the coach in which we came 
here, being at the door, you’ll allow me to 
hand you down to it and pack jou home to 
the Bank : where the best course for you to 
pursue, will be to put your feet into the hottest 
water you can bear, and take a glass of scald- 
ing rum and butter after you get into bed.” 
With these words Mr. Bounderby extended 
his right hand to the weeping lady and escort- 
ed her to the conveyance in question, shedding 


TIMES. 167 

many plaintive sneezes by the way. He soon 
returned alone. 

“Now, as you showed me in your face, 
Tom Gradgrind, that you wanted to speak to 
me,” he resumed, “ here I am. But I am not 
in a very agreeable state, I tell you plainly, 
not relishing this business even as it is, and 
not considering that I am at any time as 
dutifully and submissively treated by your 
daughter as Josiah Bounderby of Coketown 
ought to be treated by his wife. You have 
your opinion, I dare say ; and I have mine, I 
know. If you mean to say anything to me to- 
night, that goes against this candid remark, 
you had better leave it alone.” 

Mr. Gradgrind, it will be observed, being 
much softened, Mr. Bounderby took particular 
pains to harden himself at all points. It was 
his amiable nature. 

“ My dear Bounderby,” Mr. Gradgrind be- 
gan in reply. 

“Now, you’ll excuse me,” said Bounderby, 
“but I don’t want to be too dear. That to 
start with. When I begin to be dear to a man, 

I generally find that his intention is to come 
over me. I am not speaking to you politely j 
but, as you are aware, I am not polite. If 
you like politeness, you know where to get it. 
You have your gentlemen friends you know, 
and they’ll serve you with as much of the 
article as you want. I don’t keep it myself.” 

“ Bounderby,” urged Mr. Gradgrind, “ we 
are all liable to mistakes ” 

“I thought you couldn’t make ’em,” inter- 
rupted Bounderby. 

“ Perhaps I thought so. But, I say we are 
all liable to mistakes; and I should feel sensi- 
ble of your delicacy, and really grateful for it, 
if you would spare me these references to 
Harthouse. I shall not associate him in our 
conversation with your intimacy and en- 
couragement; pray do not persist in connect- 
ing him with mine.” 

“ I never mentioned his name !” said Boun- 
derby. 

“Well, well !” returned Mr. Gradgrind, with 
a patient, even a submissive, air. And he sat ' 
for a little while pondering. “Bounderby, I 
see reason to doubt whether we have ever 
quite understood Louisa.” 

“Who do you mean by We?” 

“Let me say, I, then,” he returned, in answer 
to the coarsely blurted question; “I doubt 
whether I have understood Louisa. I doubt 
whether I have been quite right in the manner 
of her education.” 

“There you hit it,” returned Bounderby. 
“There I agree with you. You have found it 
out at last, have you ? Education ! I’ll tell 
you what education is — To be tumbled out of 
doors, neck and crop, and put upon the short- 
est allowance of everything except blows. 
That’s what I call education.” 

“I think your good sense will perceive,” 
Mr. Gradgrind remonstrated in all humility, 

“ that whatever the merits of such a system 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


168 

may be, it would be difficult of general appli- 
cation to girls.” 

“ I don’t see it at all, sir,” returned the ob- 
stinate Bounderby. 

Well,” sighed Mr. Gradgrind, “ we will not 
enter into the question. I assure you I have 
no desire to be controversial. I seek to repair 
what is amiss, if I possibly can, and I hope 
you will assist me in a good spirit, Bounderby, 
for I have been very much distressed.” 

“ I don’t understand you, yet,” said Boun- 
derby, with determined obstinacy, “ and there- 
fore I won’t make any promises.” 

In the course of a few hours, my dear 
Bounderby,” Mr. Gradgrind proceeded, in the 
same depressed and propitiatory manner, “I 
appear to myself to have become better in- 
formed as to Louisa’s character than in all 
previous years. The enlightenment has been 
painfully forced upon me, and the discovery is 
not mine. I think there are — Bounderby, you 
will be surprised to hear me say this — I think 
there are imaginative qualities in Louisa, 
which — which have been hardly dealt with, 
and — and a little perverted. And — and I 
would suggest to you, that — that if you would 
kindly meet me in a timely endeavor to leave 
her to her better nature for a while — and to 
encourage it to develop itself by tenderness 
and consideration — it — it would be better 
for the happiness of all of us. Louisa,” said 
Mr. Gradgrind, shading his face with his hand, 

has always been my favorite child.” 

The blustrous Bounderby crimsoned and 
swelled to such an extent on hearing these 
words, that he seemed to be, and probably was, 
on the brink of a fit. With his very ears a 
bright purple shot with crimson, he put up his 
indignation, however, and said: 

^‘You’dlike to keep her here for a time?” 

“I — I had intended to recommend, my dear 
Bounderby, that you should allow Louisa to 
remain here on a visit, and be attended by 
Sissy (I mean of course Cecilia Jupe), who un- 
derstands her, and in whom she trusts.” 

‘T gather from all this, Tom Gradgrind,” 
said Bounderby, standing up with his hands in 
his pockets, ‘‘that you are of opinion there’s 
what people call some incompatibility between 
Loo Bounderby and myself.” 

“I fear there is at present a general incom- 
patibility between Louisa, and — and — and al- 
most all the relations in which I have placed 
her,” was her father’s sorrowful reply. 

“Now look you here, Tom Gradgrind,” 
said Bounderby the flushed, confronting him 
with his legs wide apart, his hands deeper in his 
pockets, his hair like a hay field wherein his 
windy anger was boisterous. “ You have said 
your say, I am going to say mine. I am a 
Coketown man. I am Josiah Bounderby of 
Coketown. I know the bricks of this town, 
and I know the works of this town, and I 
know the chimneys of this town, and I know 
the smoke of this town, and I knowthe Hands 
.of this town. I know ’em all pretty well. — 


They’re real. When a man tells me anything 
about imaginative qualities, I always tell that 
man, whoever he is, that I know what he 
means. He means turtle-soup and venison, 
with a gold spoon, and that he wants to be set 
up with a coach and six. That’s what your 
daughter wants. Since you are of opinion 
that she ought to have what she wants, I 
recommend you to provide it for her. Be- 
cause, Tom Gradgrind, she will never have it 
from me.” 

“Bounderby,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “I 
hoped, after my entreaty, you would have 
taken a different tone.” 

“Just wait a bit,” retorted Bounderby, 
“you have said your say, I believe. I heard 
you out j hear me out if you please. Don’t 
make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as 
well as inconsistency, because, although I am 
sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his 
present position, I should be doubly soi-ry to 
see him brought so low as that. Now, there’s 
an incompatibility of some sort or another, I 
am given to understand by you, between your 
daughter and me. I’ll give you to understand, 
in reply to that, that there unquestionably is 
an incompatibility of the first magnitude to be 
summed up in this — that your daughter don’t 
properly know her husband’s merits, and is 
not impressed with such a sense as would be- 
come her, by George I of the honor of his al- 
liance. That’s plain speaking, I hope.” 

“Bounderby,” urged Mr. Gradgrind, “this 
is unreasonable.” 

“Is it ?” said Bounderby. “I am glad to hear 
you say so. Because when Tom Gradgrind, 
with his new lights, tells me that what I say is 
unreasonable, l am convinced. at once that it 
must be devilish sensible. With your permis- 
sion I am going on. You know my origin, 
and you know that for a good many years of 
my life I didn’t want a shoeing-horn in conse- 
quence of not having a shoe. Yet you may 
believe or not, as you think proper, that there 
are ladies — born ladies — belonging to families 
— families I— who next to worship the ground 
I walk on.” 

He discharged this, like a Rocket, at his 
father-in-law’s head. 

“Whereas your daughter,” proceeded Boun- 
derby, “is far from being a born lady. That 
you know, yourself. Not that I care a pinch 
of candle-snuff about such things, for you are 
very well aware I don’t ; but that such is the 
fact, and you, Tom Gradgrind, can’t change it. 
Why do I say this ?” 

“Not, I fear,” observed Mr. Gradgrind, in a 
low voice, “to spare me.” 

“ Hear me out,” said Bounderby, “ and re- 
frain from cutting in till your turn comes 
round. I say this, because highly connected 
females have been astonished to see the way 
in which your daughter has conducted her- 
self, and to witness her insensibility. They 
have wondered how I have suffered it. And 
I wonder myself now, and I won’t suffer it.” 

“Bounderby,” returned Mr. Gradgrind, 


HARD 

rising, “ tlie less we say to-night the better, I 
think.” ’ 

“On the contrary, Tom Gradgrind, the 
more we say to-night, the better, I think. — 
That is,” — the consideration checked him — 
“ till I have said all I mean to say, and then I 
don’t care how soon we stop. I come to a 
question that may shorten the business. — 
What do you mean by the proposal you made 
just now ?” 

“ What do I mean, Bounderby ?” 

“ By your visiting proposition,” said Boun- 
derby, with an inflexible jerk of the hay field. 

“ I mean that I hope you may be induced 
to arrange, in a friendly manner, for allowing 
Louisa a period of repose and reflection here, 
which may tend to a gradual alteration for the 
better in many respects. 

“ To a softening down of your ideas of the 
incompatibility,” said Bounderby. 

“ If you put it in those terms.” 

“What made you think of this ?” said Boun- 
derby. 

“ I have already said, I fear Louisa has not 
been understood. Is it asking too much, 
Bounderby, that you, so far her elder, should 
aid in trying to set her right? You have ac- 
cepted a great charge of her ; you took her for 
better for worse.” 

Mr. Bounderby may have been annoyed by 
the repetition of his own words to Stephen Black- 
pool, but he cut the quotation short with an 
angry start. 

“Come 1” he said, “ I don’t want to be told 
about that. 'I know what I took her for, as 
well as you. Never you mind what I took her 
for; that’s my look out.” 

“I was merely going on to remark, Boun- 
derby, that we may all be more or less in the 
wrong, not even excepting you ; and that some 
yielding consideration on your part, remem- 
bering the trust you have accepted, may not 
only be an act of true kindness, but perhaps a 
debt incurred towards Louisa.” 

“ I think difierently,” blustered Bounderby, 
“ I am going to finish this business according 
to my own opinions. I don’t want to make a 
quarrel of it with you, Tom Gradgrind. To 
tell you the truth, I don’t think it would be 
worthy of my reputa^on to quarrel on such 
a poor subject. Your gentleman friend, he 
may take himself off, wherever he likes best. 
If he falls in my way, f shall tell him my 
mind ; if he don’t fall in my way, I shan’t, for 
it won’t be worth my while to do it. As to 
your daughter, whom I made Loo Bounderby, 
and might have done better by leaving Loo 
Gradgrind, if she don’t come home to-mor- 
row, by twelve o’clock at noon, I shall under- 
stand that she prefers to stay away, and I 
shall send her wearing apparel and so forth 
over here, and you’ll take charge of her for 
the future. What I shall say to people in gene- 
ral, of the incompatibility that led to my so 
laying down the law, will be this. I am Josiah 
Bounderby, and I had my bringing-up. She’s 
the daughter of Tom Gradgrind, and she had 


TIMES. 169 

her bringing-up ; and the two horses wouldn’t 
pull tog^her I I am pretty well known to be 
rather an uncommon man, I believe ; and 
most people will understand fast enough that 
it must be a woman rather out of the common 
also, who, in the long run, would come up to 
my mark.” 

“ Let me seriously entreat you to re-consider 
this, Bounderby,” urged Mr. Gradgrind, “ be- 
fore you commit yourself to a decision.” 

“ I always come to a decision,” said Boun- 
derby, tossing his hat on, “ and whatever I 
do, I do at once. I should be surprised at Tom 
Gradgrind’s addressing such a remark to Jo- 
siah Bounderby, of Coketown, knowing what 
he knows of him, if I could be surprised by 
anything Tom Gradgrind did, after his making 
himself a party to sentimental humbug. I 
have given you my decision, and I have got no 
more to say. Good night!” 

So, Mr. Bounderby went home to his town- 
house to bed. At five minutes past twelve 
o’clock next day, he directed Mrs.Bounderby’s 
property to be carefully packed up and sent to 
Tom Gradgrind’s ; advertised Nickit’s retreat 
for sale by private contract ; and resumed a 
bachelor’s life. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

The robbery at the bank had not languish- 
ed before, and did not cease to occupy a front 
place in the attention of the principal of that 
establishment now. In trustful proof of hia 
promptitude and activity, as a remarkable 
man, and a self-made man, and a commercial 
wonder, more admirable than Venus, who had 
risen out of the mud instead of the sea, he 
liked to show how little his domestic affairs 
abated his business ardor. Consequently, in 
the first few weeks of his resumed bachelor- 
hood, he even advanced upon his usual dis- 
play of lustre, and every day made such a 
rout in renewing his investigations into the 
robbery, that the professional persons who had 
it in hand almost wished it had never been 
committed. 

They were at fault too, and off the scent. 
Although they had been so quiet since the 
first outbreak of the matter, that most people 
really did suppose it to have been abandoned 
as hopeless, nothing new occurred. No im- 
plicated man or woman took untimely courage 
or made a self-betraying step. More remark- 
able yet, Stephen Blackpool was not found, and 
the mysterious old woman remained a mys- 
tery. 

Things having come to this pass, and show 
ing no latent signs of stirring beyond it, the 
upshot of Mr. Bounderby’s investigations 
was, that he resolved to hazard a bold burst. 
He drew up a placard, offering Twenty 
Pounds reward for the apprehension • of 
Stephen Blackpool, suspected of complicity in 
the robbery of the Coketown Bank on such 
a night : he described the said Stephen 
Blackpool by dress, complexion, estimated 


170 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


height, and manner, as minutely as he could; 
he had recited how he had left the town, and in 
what direction he had last been seen going; 
he had the whole printed in great black letters 
on a staring broadsheet; and caused the 
walls to be posted with it in the dead of the 
night, so that it should strike upon the sight of 
the whole population at one blow. 

The factory-bells had need to ring their 
loudest that morning to disperse the groups of 
workers who stood in the tardy daybreak, 
collected round the placards, devouring them 
with eager eyes. N ot the least eager of the eyes 
assembled were the eyes of those who could 
not read. These people, as they listened to 
the friendly voice that read aloud — there was 
always some such ready to help them — started 
at the characters which meant so much with a 
vague awe and respect that would have been 
half ludicrous if such a picture of a Country 
as a suicidal Idiot with its sword of state at its 
own heart could ever be otherwise than wholly 
shocking. Many ears and eyes were busy with 
a vision of the matter of these placards, among 
turning spindles, rattling looms and whirring 
wheels, for hours afterwards; and when the 
Hands cleared out again into the streets, there 
were as many readers as before. 

Slackbridge, the delegate, had to address 
his audience too that night, and Slackbridge 
had obtained a clean bill from the printer, 
and had brought it in his pocket. Oh my 
friends and fellow countrymen, the down- 
trodden operatives of Coketown, oh my 
fellow brothers and fellow workmen and 
fellow citizens and fellow men, what a stir 
was there when Slackbridge unfolded what 
he called “ that damning document,” and held 
it up to the gaze, and for the execration, of 
the working-man community ! “ Oh, my 

fellow men, behold of what a traitor in the 
camp of those great spirits who are enrolled 
upon the holy scroll of Justice and of Union, 
is appropriately capable 1 Oh my prostrate 
friends, with the galling yoke of tyrants on 
your necks and the iron foot of despotism 
treading down your fallen forms into the dust 
of the earth, upon which right glad would 
your oppressors be to see you creeping on 
your bellies all the days of your lives, like the 
serpent in the garden — oh my brothers, and 
shall I as a man not add my sisters too, what 
do you say, now, of Stephen Blackpool, with a 
slight stoop in his shoulders and about five 
foot seven in height, as set forth in this de- 
grading and disgusting document, this blight- 
ing bill, this pernicious placard, this abomi- 
nable advertisement ; and with what majesty 
of denouncement, will you crush the viper 
who would bring this stain and shame upon 
the Godlike race that happily has cast him 
out for ever 1 Yes, my compatriots, happily 
cast him out and sent him forth! For you 
remember how he stood here before you on 
this platform; you remember how, face to 
face and foot to foot, I pursued him through 
all his intricate windings ; you remember how 


he sneaked, and shanked, and sidled, and 
splitted straws, until with not an inch of ground 
to which to cling, I hurled him out from 
amongst us : an object for the undying finger 
of scorn to point at, and for the avenging fire 
of every free and thinking mind, to scorch and 
slur 1 And now, my friends, my laboring friends, 
for I rejoice and triumph in that stigma, my 
friends ; whose hard but honest beds are made 
in toil, and whose scanty but independent pots 
are boiled in hardship ; and, now I say, my 
friends, what appellation has that dastard craven 
taken to himself, when, with the mask torn 
from his features, he stands before us in all 
his native deformity, a What? a thief! a 
plunderer! a proscribed fugitive, with a price 
upon his head, a fester and a wound upon 
the noble character of the Coketown opera- 
tive ! Therefore, my band of brothers in a 
sacred bond, to which your children and your 
children’s children yet unborn have set their 
infant hands and seals, I propose to you on the 
part of the United Aggregate Tribunal, ever 
watchful for your welfare, ever zealous for 
your benefit, that this meeting does Resolve: 
That Stephen Blackpool, weaver, referred to 
in this placard, having been already solemnly 
disowned by the community of Coketown 
Hands, the same are free from the shame of his 
misdeeds, and cannot as a class be reproached 
with his dishonest actions !” 

Thus Slackbridge ; gnashing and perspiring 
after a prodigious sort. A few stern voices 
called out “No!” and a score or two hailed 
with assenting cries of “Hear, hear!” the 
caution from one man, “ Slackbridge, y’or 
over better int ; y’or a goen too fast !” But 
these were pigmies against an army ; the 
general assemblage subscribed to the gospel 
according to Slackbridge, and gave three 
cheers for him, as he sat demonstratively 
panting at them. 

These men and women were yet in the 
streets, passing quietly to their homes, when 
Sissy, who had been called away from Louisa 
some minutes before, returned. 

“ Who is it ?” asked Louisa. 

“ It is Mr. Bounderby,” said Sissy, timid of 
the name, “ and your brother Mr. Tom, and a 
young woman who says her name is Rachael, 
and that you know her.” 

“What do they want. Sissy dear?” 

“ They want to see you. Rachael has been 
crying and seems angry.” 

“ Father,” said Louisa, for he was present, 
“I cannot refuse to see them, for a reason you 
will soon understand. Shall they come in 
here?” 

As he answered in the affirmative. Sissy went 
away to bring them. She reappeared with 
them directly. Tom was last, and remained 
standing in the obscurest part of the room, 
near the door. 

“Mrs. Bounderby,” said her husband, enter- 
ing with a cool nod, “I don’t disturb you, I 
hope. This is an unseasonable hour, but here 
is a young woman who has been making state- 


HARD 

ments wliicli render my yisit necessary. Tom 
Gradgrind, as your son, young Tom, refuses 
for some obstinate reason or other, to say any- 
thing at all about those statements, good or 
bad, I am obliged to confront her with your 
daughter.” 

^‘You have seen me once before, young 
lady,” said Rachael, standing in front of 
Louisa. 

Tom coughed. 

“You have seen me, young lady,” repeated 
Rachael, as she did not answer, “once before.” 

Tom coughed again. 

“ I have.” 

Rachael cast her eyes proudly towards Mr. 
Bounderby, and said, “ Will you make it 
known where, and who was there?” 

“ I went to the house where Stephen Black- 
pool lodged, on the night of his discharge from 
his work, and I saw you there. He was there 
too j and an old woman who did not speak, 
and whom I could scarcely see, stood in a 
dark corner. My brother went with me.” 

“ Why couldn’t you say so, young Tom ?” 
demanded Bounderby. 

“ I promised my sister I wouldn’t |” which 
Louisa hastily confirmed. “ And, besides,” 
said the whelp bitterly, “she tells her own 
story so precious well — and so full — that what 
business had I to take it out of her mouth 1” 

“Say, young lady, if you please,” pursued 
Rachael, “why, in an evil hour, you ever came 
to Stephen’s that night.” 

“I felt compassion for him,” said Louisa, her 
color deepening, “ and I wished to know what 
he was going to do, and wished to offer him 
assistance.” 

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Bounderby. — 
“ Much flattered and obliged.” 

“Did you offer him,” asked Rachael, “a bank 
note?” 

“Yes; but he refused it, and would only 
take two pounds in gold.” 

Rachael cast her eyes towards Mr. Bounder- 
by again. 

“ Oh certainly 1 ” said Bounderby. “ If you 
put the question whether your ridiculous and 
improbable account was true or not, I am 
bound to say it is confirmed.” 

“ Young lady,” said Rachael, “ Stephen 
Blackpool is now named as a robber in public 
print all over this town and everywhere else 1 
There have been a meeting to-night where 
he have been spoken of in the same shameful 
way. Stephen ! The honestest lad, the truest 
lad, the best ! ” Her indignation failed her, 
and she broke off, sobbing. 

“ I am very, very sorry,” said Louisa. 

“ 0 young lady, young lady,” returned 
Rachael, “ I hope you may be, but I don’t 
know ! I can’t say what you may ha’ done I 
The like of you don’t feel for us, don’t care 
for us, don’t belong to us. I am not sure why 
ou may ha’ come that night. I can’t tell 
ut what you may ha’ come wi’ some aim 
of your own, not mindin’ to what trouble you 
brought such as the poor lad. I said then, 


TIMES. 171 

[ Bless you for coming, and I said it of my 
heart, you seemed to take so pitifully to him, 
but I don’t know now, I don’t know ! ” 

Louisa could not reproach her for her* 
unjust suspicions ; she was so faithful to her 
idea of the man, and so unhappy. 

“ And when I think,” said Rachael through 
her sobs, “ that the poor lad was so grateful, 
thinkin’ you so good to him — when I mind 
that he put his hand over his hard-worken 
face to hide the tears that you brought up 
there — 0 I hope you may be sorry, and ha’ 
no bad cause to be it, but I don’t know, I 
don’t know! ” 

“You’re a pretty article,” growled the 
whelp, moving uneasily in his dark corner, 
“ to come here with these precious imputa- 
tions! You ought to be bundled out for not 
knowing how to behave yourself, and you 
would be by rights.” 

She said nothing in reply, and her low 
weeping was the only sound that was heard, 
until Mr. Bounderby spoke. 

Come I” said he, “you know what you have 
engaged to do. You had better give your 
mind to that ; not this.” 

“’Deed, I am loath,” returned Rachael, dry- 
ing her eyes, “ that any here should see me 
weep ; but I wont be seen so again. Young 
lady, when I had read what’s put in print of 
Stephen — and what has just as much truth in 
it as if it had been put in print of you, and no 
more — I went straight to the Bank to say I 
knew where Stephen was, and to give a sure 
and certain promise that he should be here in 
two days. I couldn’t meet wi’ Mr. Bounderby 
then, and your brother sent me away, and I 
tried to find you, but you was not to be found, 
and I went back to work. Soon as I came out 
of the Mill to-night I hasted to hear what was 
said of Stephen — for I know wi’ pride he will 
come back to shame it I — and then I went again 
to see Mr. Bounderby, and I found him, and I 
told him every word I knew, and he believed 
no word I said, and brought me here.” 

“So far that’s true enough,” assented Mr. 
BounderbyJ tvith his hands in his pockets and 
his hat on. “But I have known you people 
before to day, you’ll observe, and I know you 
never die for want of talking. Now, I recom- 
mend you not so much to mind talking just 
now, as doing. You have undertaken to do 
something ; all I remark upon that at present 
is, do it I” 

“I have written to Stephen by the post ' that 
went out this afternoon, as I have written to 
him once before sin’ he went away,” said Ra- 
chael ; “and he will be here at furthest, in two 
days.” 

“Then I’ll tell you something. You ar^ 
not aware, perhaps,” retorted Mr. Bounderby, 
“that you yourself have been looked after now 
and then, not being considered quite free from 
suspicion in this business, on account of most 
people being judged according to the compa- 
ny they keep. The post-office hasn’t been for- 
gotten either. What I’ll tell you is, that no 


172 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


letter to Stephen Blackpool has ever got 
into it. Theiefore, what has become of yours, 
I leave you to guess. Perhaps you’re mis- 
taken, and never wrote any.” 

“ He hadn’t been gone from here, young 
lady,” said Rachael, turning appealingly to 
Louisa, “as much as a week, when he sent me 
the only letter I have had, saying that he was 
forced to seek work in another name.” 

“Oh, by George 1” cried Bounderby, with 
a whistle, “ he changes his name, does he ? 
That’s rather unlucky, too, for such an imma- 
culate lad. It’s considered a little suspicious 
in Courts of Justice, I believe, when an Inno- 
cent happens to have many names.” 

“ What,” said Rachael, with the tears in her 
eyes again, — “ what, young lady, in the name 
of Mercy, was left the poor lad to do ! The 
masters against him on one hand, the men, 
against him on the other, he only wanting 
to work hard in peace, and do what he felt 
right. Can a man have no soul of his own, 
no mind of his own ? Must he go wrong all 
through wi’ this side, or must he go wrong all 
through wi’'that,or else be hunted like a hare?” 

“ Indeed, indeed, I pity him from my heart,” 
returned Louisa ; “ and I hope that he will 
clear himself.” 

“You need have no fear of it, young lady. 
He is sure 1 ” 

“All the surer, I suppose,” said Mr. Boun- 
derby, “for your refusing to tell where he is ? 
Eh lass ?” 

“ He shall not, through any act of mine, 
come back wi’ the unmerited reproach of being 
brought back. He shall come back of his 
own accord to clear himself, and put all those 
that have injured his good character, and he 
not here for its defence, to shame. I have 
told him what has been done against him,” 
said Rachael, throwing off all distrust as a rock 
throws off the sea, “and he will be here, at 
furthest, in two days.” 

“ Notwithstanding which,” added Mr. Boun- 
derby, “if he can be laid hold of sooner, he 
shall have an earlier opportunity of clearing 
himself. As to you, I have nothing against 
you ; what you came and told me turns out to 
be true, and I have given you the means of 

roving it to be true, and there’s an end of it. 

wish you Good-night all 1 1 must be off to 

look a little further into this.” 

Tom came out of his corner when Mr. 
Bounderby moved, moved with him, kept close 
to him, and went away with him. The only 
parting salutation of which he delivered himself 
was a sulky “ Good night, father 1 ” With that 
brief speech, and a scowl at his sister, he left 
the house. 

Since his sheet-anchor had come home, Mr. 
Gradgrind had been sparing of speech. He 
still sat silent, when Louisa mildly said : 

“ Rachael, you will not distrust me one day, 
when you know me better.” 

“ It goes against me,” Rachael answered, 
in a gentle manner, “ to mistrust any one ; but 
when I am so mistrusted — when we all are — 


I cannot keep such things quite out of my 
mind. I ask your pardon for having done you 
an injury. I don’t think what I said, now. — 
Yet I might come to think it again, wi’ the 
poor lad so belied.” 

“ Did you tell him in your letter,” inquired 
Sissy, “that suspicion seemed to have fallen 
upon him, because he had been seen about 
the bank at night? He would then know 
what he would have to explain on coming 
back, and would be ready.” 

“ Yes, dear,” she returned 5 “ but I can’t 
guess what can have ever taken him there. 
He never used to go there. It was never in 
his way. His way was the same as minel and 
not near it.” 

Sissy had already been at her side asking 
her where she lived, and whether she might 
come to-morrow night, to inquire if there 
were news. 

“ I doubt,” said Rachael, “ if he can be here 
till next day.” 

“ Then I will come next night too,” said 
Sissy.” 

When Rachael, assenting to this, was gone, 
Mr. Gradgrind lifted up his head, and said to 
his daughter: 

“ Louisa, my dear, I have never, that I 
know of, seen this man. Do you believe him 
to be implicated ?” 

“I think I have believed it, father, though 
with great difficulty. I do not believe it now.” 

“That is to say, you once persuaded your- 
self to belie'w? it, from knowing him to be sus- 
pected. His appearance and manner; are they 
so honest?” 

“ Very honest.” 

“And her confidence not to be shaken. I 
ask myself, then,’’ said Mr. Gradgrind, musing, 
“ does the real culprit know of these accusa- 
tions? Where is he ? Who is he?” 

His hair had latterly begun to change its 
color. As he leaned upon his hand again, 
looking gray and old, Louisa, with a face 01 
■fear and pity, hurriedly went over to him and 
sat close at his side. Her eyes by accident 
met Sissy’s at this moment. Sissy flushed and 
started, and Louisa put her finger on her lip. 

Next night when Sissy returned home and 
told Louisa that Stephen was not come, she 
told it in a whisper. Nexi night again, when 
she came home with the same account, and 
added that he had not been heard of, she 
spoke in the same low frightened tone. From 
the moment of that interchange of looks, they 
never uttered his name, or any reference to 
him aloud ; nor ever pursued the subject of 
the robbery when Mr. Gradgrind spoke of it. 

The two appointed days ran out, three 
days and nights ran out, and Stephen Black- 
pool was not come, and remained unheard of. 
On the fourth day, Rachael, with unabated 
confidence, but considering her despatch to 
have miscarried, went up to the Bank, and 
showed her letter from him with his address, 
at a working colony, one of many, not upon 
the main road, some sixty miles away. Mes- 


HARD TIMES. 


sengers were sent to that place, and the whole 
town looked for Stephen to be brought in next 
day. 

All this time the whelp moved about with 
Mr. Bounderby, like his shadow, assisting in 
all the proceedings. He was greatly excited, 
horribly fevered, bit his nails down to the 
quick, spoke in a hard rattling voice, and with 
lips that were black and burnt up. At the 
time when the suspected man was looked for, 
the whelp was at the station, offering to wager 
that he had made off before the arrival of those 
who were sent in quest of him, and that he 
would not appear. 

The whelp was right. The messengers re- 
turned alone. Rachael’s letter had gone, 
Rachael’s letter had been delivered, Stephen 
Blackpool had decamped in that same hour ; 
and no soul knew more of him. The only 
doubt in Coketown was, whether Rachael had 
written in good faith, believing that he really 
would come back ; or warning him to fly. On 
this point opinion was divided. 

Six days, seven, far on into another week. 
The wretched whelp plucked up a ghastly cou- 
rage, and began to grow defiant. “ Was the 
suspected fellow the thief? A pretty question ! 
If not, where was the man, and why did he not 
come back?” 

Where was the man, and why did he not 
come back ? In the dead of night the echoes 
of his own words, which had rolled Heaven 
knows how far away* in the daytime, came 
back instead, and abided by him until morn- 
ing. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Day and night again, day and night again. 
No Stephen Blackpool. Where was the man, 
and why did he not come back ? 

Every night Sissy went to Rachael’s lodg- 
ing, and sat with her in her small neat room. 
All day, Rachael toiled as such people must, 
toil, whatever their anxieties. The smoke-ser- 
pents were indifferent who was lost or found, 
who was bad or good ; the melancholy mad 
elephants, like the Hard Fact men, abated 
nothing of their set routine, whatever hap- 
pened. Day and night again, day and night 
again, the monotony was unshaken. Even 
Stephen Blackpool’s disappearance was falling 
into the general way, and becoming as monoto- 
nous a wonder as any piece of machinery in 
Coketown. 

‘T misdoubt,” said Rachael, “if there is as 
many as twenty left in all this place who have 
any trust in the poor dear lad now.” 

She said it to Sissy as they sat in her lodg- 
ing, lighted only by the lamp at the street cor- 
ner. Sissy had come there when it was al- 
ready dark, to wait for her return from work; 
and they had since sat at the window where 
Rachael had found her, wanting no brighter 
light to shine on their sorrowful talk. 

“If it hadn’t been mercifully brought about 
that I was to have you to speak to,” pursued 


173 

Rachael, “times are when I think my mind 
would not have kept right. But I get hope 
and strength through you, and you believe 
that though appearances may rise against him, 
he will be proved clear, living or dead.” 

“I do believe so,” returned Sissy, “ with my 
whole heart. I feel so certain, Rachael, that 
the confidence you hold in yours against all 
discouragement, is not like to be wrong, that I 
have no more doubt of him than if I had 
known him through as many years of trial as 
you have.” 

“And I, my dear,” said Rachael, with a 
tremble in her voice, “have known him 
through them all, to be, according to his 
quiet ways, so faithful to everything honest 
and good, that if he was never to be heard of 
more, and I was to live to be a hundred years 
old, I would say with my last breath, God 
knows my heart, I have never once left trust- 
ing Stephen Blackpool I” 

“ We all believe, up at the Lodge, Rachael, 
that he will be freed from suspicion, sooner or 
later.” 

“The better I know it to be -^o believed 
there, my dear,” said Rachael, “ and the kinder 
I feel it that you come away from there pur- 
posely to comfort me, and keep me company, 
and be seen wi’ me when I am not yet free 
from all suspicion myself, the more grieved I 
am that I should ever have spoken those mis- 
trusting words to the young lady. And yet — ” 

“ You don’t mistrust her now, Rachael?” 

“ Now that you have brought us more to- 
gether, no ; not her. But I can’t at all times 
keep out of my mind — ” 

Her voice so sunk into a low and slow com- 
muning with herself, that Sissy, sitting by her 
side, was obliged to listen with attention. 

“I can’t at all times keep out of my mind, 
mistrustings of some one. I can’t think who 
’tis, I can’t think how or why it may be done, 
but I mistrust that some one has put Stephen 
out of the way. I mistrust that by his coming 
back of his own accord, and showing himseli 
innocent before them all, some one would be 
confounded, who — to prevent that — has stopped 
him and put him out of the way.” 

“That is a dreadful thought,” said Sissy, 
turning pale. 

“It is a dreadful thought to think he may be 
murdered.” 

Sissy shuddered, and turned paler yet. 

“When it makes its way into my mind, 
dear,” said Rachael, “and it will come some- 
times, though I do all I can to keep it out wi’ 
counting on to high nuipbers as I work, and 
saying over and over again pieces that I knew 
when I were a child, I fall into such a wild hot 
hurry, that, however tired I am, I want to walk 
fast, miles and miles. I must get the better of 
this before my bed time. I’ll walk home wi* 
you now.” 

“ He might fall ill upon the journey,” said 
Sissy, faintly offering a worn-out scrap of hope ; 
“ and in such a case there are many places oa 
the road where he might stop.” 


DICKENS^ NEAV STORIES. 


174 

“But he is in none of them. He^s been 
sought for in all, and he’s not there.” 

“ True,” was Sissy’s reluctant admission. 

“ He’d walk the journey in two days. If he 
'was footsore and couldn’t walk, I sent him, in 
the letter he got, the money to ride, lest he 
should have none of his own to spare.” 

“ Let us hope that to-morrow will bring 
something better, Rachael. Come into the 
air 1” 

Her gentle hand adjusted Rachael’s shawl 
upon her shining black hair in the usual man- 
ner of her wearing it, and they went out. The 
night being fine, little knots of Hands were 
here and there lingering at street corners ; 
but it was supper time with the greater part 
ol'them, and there were but few people in the 
streets. 

‘‘You are not so hurried now, Rachael, and 
your hand is cooler.” 

“ I get better, dear, if I can only walk and 
breathe a little fresh. Times when I can’t, I 
turn weak and confused.” 

“ But you must not begin to fail, Rachael, 
for you may^ be wanted at any time to stand 
for Stephen. To-morrow is Saturday. If no 
ftews comes to-morrow, let us walk in the 
country on Sunday morning, and strengthen 
you for another week. Will you go?” 

“ Yes, dear.” 

They were by this time in the street where 
Mr. Bounderby’s house stood. The way to 
Sissy’s destination led them past the door, and 
they were going straight towards it. Some 
train had just arrived in Coketown, which had 
put a number of vehicles in motion, and scat- 
tered a considerable bustle about the town. — 
Several coaches were rattling before them and 
behind them as they approached Mr, Boun- 
derby’s, and one of the latter drew up with such 
briskness as they were in the act of passing 
the house, that they looked round involunta- 
rily. The bright gaslight over Mr. Bounder- 
by’s steps showed them Mrs. Sparsit in the 
coach in an ecstasy of excitement, struggling 
to open the door ; Mrs. Sparsit seeing them at 
the same moment, called to them to stop. 

“ It’s a coincidence,” exclaimed Mrs. Spar- 
sit, as she was released by the coachman. — 
“It’s a Providence ! Come out, ma’am 1” then 
said Mrs. Sparsit, to some one inside, “ come 
out, or we’ll have you dragged out I” 

Hereupon, no other than the mysterious old 
woman descended ; whom Mrs. Sparsit incon- 
tinently collared. 

“Leave her alone, everybody I” cried Mrs. 
Sparsit, with great energy. “Let nobody 
touch her. She belongs to me. Come in, 
ma’am 1” then said Mrs. Sparsit, reversing her 
former word of command. “ Come in, ma’am, 
or we’ll have you dragged in 1” 

The spectacle of a Roman-nosed matron of 
classical deportment, seizing an ancient 
■woman by the throat, and hauling her into a 
dwelling-house, would have been, under any 
circumstances, sufficient temptation to all 
true English stragglers so blest as to witness 


it, to force a way into that dwelling-house 
and see the matter out. But when the phe- 
nomenon was enhanced by the notoriety and 
mystery by this time associated all over the 
town, with the Bank robbery, it would have 
lured the stragglers in with an irresistible attrac- 
tion, though the roof had been expected to fall 
upon their heads. Accordingly, the chance 
witnesses on the ground, consisting of the 
busiest of the neighbors, to the number of 
some five and twenty, closed in after Sissy and 
Rachael, as they closed in after Mrs. Sparsit 
and her prize ; and the whole body made a 
disorderly irruption into Mr. Bounderby’a 
dining room, where the people behind lost not 
a moment’s time in mounting on the chairs to 
get the better of the people in front. 

“ Fetch Mr. Bounderby down 1” cried Mrs. 
Sparsit. “Rachael, young woman j you know 
who this is ?” 

“It’s Mrs. Pegler,” said Rachael. 

“ I should think it is 1” cried Mrs. Sparsit, 
exulting. “Fetch Mr. Bounderby. Stand 
away everybody 1” Here old Mrs. Pegler, 
muffling herself up, and shrinking from obser- 
vation, whispered a word of entreaty. “ Don’t 
tell me,” said Mrs. Sparsit aloud, “I have 
told you twenty times coming along, that I 
will not leave you till I have handed you over 
to him myself.” 

Mr. Bounderby now appeared, accompanied 
by Mr. Gradgrind and the whelp, with whom 
he had been holding conference up stairs. — 
Mr. Bounderby looked more astonished than 
hospitable at sight of this uninvited party in 
his dining-room. 

“ Why, what’s the matter now 1” said he. — 
“ Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am ?” 

“ Sir,” explained that worthy woman, “I 
trust it is my good fortune to produce a per- 
son you have much desired to find. Stimu- 
lated by my wish to relieve your mind, sir, an^ 
connecting together such imperfect clues to 
the part of the country in which that person 
might be supposed to reside, as have been af- 
forded by the young woman Rachael, fortu- 
nately now present to identify, I have had 
the happiness to succeed, and to bring that 
person with me — I need not say most un- 
willingly on her part. It has not been, sir, 
without some trouble that I have effected 
this ; but trouble in your service is to me a 
pleasure, and hunger, thirst, and cold, a real 
gratification.” 

Here Mrs. Sparsit ceased, for Mr. Bounder- 
by’s visage exhibited an extraordinary com- 
bination of all possible colors and expressions 
of discomfiture, as old Mrs. Pegler was dis- 
closed to his view, 

“ Why, what do you mean by this 1” was his 
highly unexpected demand, in great wrath. 
“ I ask you, what do you mean by this, Mrs. 
Sparsit, ma’am?” 

“ Sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, faintly. 

“ Why don’t you mind your own business, 
ma’am ?” roared Bounderby. “How dare you 


HARD TIMES. 175 


go and poke your officious nose into my family 
affairs ?” 

This allusion to her favorite feature over- 
powered Mrs. Sparsit. She sat down stiffly in 
a chair, as if she were frozen, and with a 
fixed stare at Mr. Bounderby, slowly grated 
her mittens against one another, as if they 
were frozen too. 

“ My dear Josiah,” said Mrs. Pegler, tremb- 
ling, “my darling boyl I am not to blame. 
It’s not my fault, Josiah. I told this lady 
over and over again, that I knew she was 
doing what would not be agreeable to you, but 
she would do it.” 

“What did you let her bring you for? 
Couldn’t you knock her cap off, or her tooth 
out, or scratch her, or do something or other 
to her ?” asked Bounderby. 

“ My own boy 1 She threatened me that if 
I resisted her I should be brought by consta 
bles, and it was better to come quietly than 
make that scir in such a — ” Mrs. Pegler 
glanced timidly but proudly round the walls — 
*such a fine house as this. Indeed, indeed, it 
is not my fault ; my dear, noble, stately boy. 
I have always lived quiet and secret, Josiah, 
my dear. I have never broken the condition 
once. I have never said I was your mother. 
I have admired you at a distance ; and if I 
have come to town sometimes, with long times 
between, to take a proud peep at you, I have 
done it unbeknown, my love, and gone away 
again.” 

Mr. Bounderby, with his hands in his pock- 
ets, walked in impatient mortification up and 
down at the side of the long dining-table, 
while the spectators greedily took in every 
syllable of Mrs. Pegler’s appeal, and at each 
succeeding syllable became more and more 
round-eyed. Mr. Bounderby still walking up 
and down when Mrs. Pegler had dooe, Mr. 
Graclgrind addressed that maligned old lady: 

“I am surprised, madam,” he observed with 
severity, “that in your old age you have the 
face to claim Mr. Bounderby for your son after 
your unnatural and inhuman treatment of 
him.” 

“ J/e unnatural I” cried poor old Mrs. Pegler. 
“jWe inhuman I To my dear boy?” 

“Dear!” repeated Mr. Gradgrind. “Yes; 
dear in his self-made prosperity, madam, I 
dare say. Not very dear, however, when you 
deserted him in his infancy, and left him to 
the brutality of a drunken grandmother.” 

“ / deserted my Josiah I” cried Mrs. Pegler, 
clasping her hands. “Now, Lord forgive you, 
sir, for your wicked imaginations, and for your 
scandal against the memory of my poor mother, 
who died in my arms afore Josiah was born. 
May you repent of it, sir, and live to know 
better!” 

She was so very earnest and injured that Mr. 
Gradgrind, shocked by the possibility which 
dawned upon him, said in a gentler tene, 

“ Do you deny, then, madam, that you left 
your son to — to be brought up in the gutter?” 

“Josiah in the gutter!” exclaimed Mrs. 


Pegler. “ No such a thing, sir. Never f For 
shame on you! My dear boy knows, and 
will give ^ou to know, that though he come 
of humble parents, he come of parents that 
loved him as dear as the best could, and never 
thought it hardship on themselves to pinch a 
bit that he might write and cypher beautiful, 
and I’ve his books at home to show it ! Aye, 
have 1 1” said Mrs. Pegler, with indignant 
pride. “And my dear boy knows, and will 
give yow to know, sir, that after his beloved 
father died when he was eight year old, his 
mother, too, could pinch a bit, as it was her 
duty and her pleasure and her pride to do it, 
to help him out in life, and put him ’pren- 
tice. And a steady lad he was, and a kind 
master he had to lend him a hand, and 
well he worked his own way forward to be 
rich and thriving. And I’ll give you to 
know, sir — ^for this my dear boy won’t — that 
though his mother kept but a little village 
shop, he never forgot her, but pensioned me 
on thirty pound a year — more than I want, 
for I put by out of it — only making the 
condition that I was to keep down in my 
own part, and make no boasts about him, 
and not trouble him. And I never have, 
except with looking at him once a year, 
when he has never knowed it. And it’s 
right,” said poor old Mrs. Pegler, in affec- 
tionate championship, “ that I should keep 
down in my own part, and I have no doubts 
that if I was here I should do a many unbe- 
fitting things, and I am well contented, and I 
can keep my pride in my Josiah to myself, 
and I can love for love’s own sake. And I 
am ashamed of you, sir,” said Mrs. Pegler, 
lastly, “for your slanders and suspicions. 
And I never stood here afore, or wanted to 
stand here when my dear son said no. And I 
shouldn’t be here now, if it hadn’t been for 
being brought here. And for shame upon you, 
oh!/ for shame, to accuse me of being a bad 
mother to my son, with my son standing here 
to tell you so different!” 

The bystanders, on and off the dining- 
room chairs, raised a murmur of sympathy 
with Mrs. Pegler, and Mr. Gradgrind felt 
himself innocently placed in a very distress- 
ing predicament; when Mr. Bounderby, who 
had never ceased walking up and down, and 
had every moment swelled larger and larger 
and grown redder and redder, stopped short. 

“I don’t exactly know,” said Mr. Boun- 
derby, “how I come to be favored with the 
attendance of the present company, but I 
don’t inquire. When they’re quite satisfied, 
perhaps they’ll be so good as to disperse ; 
whether they’re satisfied or not, perhaps 
they’ll be so good as disperse. I’m not bound 
to deliver a lecture ou my family affairs, I 
have not undertaken to do it, and I’m not a 
going to do it. Therefore those who expect 
any explanation whatever upon that branch 
of the subject will be disappointed — particu- 
larly Tom Gradgrind, and he can’t know it 
too soon. In reference to the Bank robbery. 


DICKEXS' NEW STORIES. 


176 

there has been a mistake made, concerning 
my mother. If there hadn’t been over- 
officiousness it wouldn’t have been made, and 
I hate over-officiousness at all times, whether 
or no. Good evening 1” 

Although Mr. Bounderby carried it off in 
these terms, holding the door open for the 
company to depart, there was a blustering 
sheepishness upon him, at once extremely 
crest-fallen and superlatively absurd. De- 
tected as the bully of humility who had built 
his windy reputation upon lies, and in his boast- 
fulness had put the honest truth as far away 
from him as if he had advanced the mean claim 
(there is no meaner) to tack himself on to a 
pedigree, he cut a most ridiculous figure. 
With the people filing off at the door he held, 
who he knew would carry what had passed to 
the whole town, to be given to the four winds, 
he could not have looked a bully more shorn 
and forlorn, if he had had his ears cropped. 
Even that unlucky female Mrs. Sparsit, fallen 
from her pinnacle of exultation into the Slough 
of Despond, was not in so bad a plight as that 
remarkable man and self-made humbug, Josiah 
Bounderby, of Coketown. 

Rachael and Sissy, leaving Mrs. Pegler to 
occupy a bed at her son’s for that night, walk- 
ed together to the gate of Stone Lodge, and 
there parted. Mr. Gradgrind Joined them be- 
fore they had gone very far, and spoke with 
much interest of Stephen Blackpool, for whom 
he thought this signal failure of the suspicions 
against Mrs. Pegler was likely to work well. 

As to the whelp ; throughout this scene, as 
on all other late occasions, he had stuck close 
to Bounderby. He seemed to feel that as long 
as Bounderby could make no discovery with- 
out his knowledge, he was so far safe. He never 
visited his sister, and had only seen her once 
since she went home, that is to say on the night 
when he still stuck close to Bounderby as al- 
ready related. 

There was one dim unformed fear lingering 
about his sister’s mind, to which she never 
gave utterance, which surrounded the graceless 
and ungrateful boy with a dreadful mystery — 
The same dark possibility had presented itself 
in the same shapeless guise, this very day, to 
Sissy when Rachael spoke of some one who 
would be confounded by Stephen’s return, 
having put him out of the way. Louisa had 
never spoken of harboring any suspicion of 
her brother in connexion with the robbery, 
she and Sissy had held no confidence on the 
subject save in that one interchange of looks 
when the unconscious father rested his gray 
head on his hand ; but it was understood be- 
tween them, and they both knew it. This 
other fear was so awful that it hovered about 
each of them like a ghostly shadow, neither 
daring to think of its being near herself, far 
less, of its being near the other. 

And still the forced spirit which the whelp 
had plucked up throve with him. If Stephen 
Blackpool was not the thief, let him show him- 
self. Why didn’t he ? 


Another night. Another day and night. 
No Stephen Blackpool. Where was the man, 
and why did he not come back ? 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

The Sunday was a bright Sunday in autumn, 
clear and cool, when early in the morning 
Sissy and Rachael met, to walk in the country. 

As Coketown cast ashes not only on its own 
head but on the neighborhood’s too — after the 
manner of those pious persons who do penance 
for their own sins by putting other people into 
sackcloth — it was customary for those who now 
and then thirsted for a draught of pure air, 
which is not absolutely the most wicked among 
the vanities of life, to get a few miles away by 
the railroad, and then begin their walk, or their 
lounge in the fields. Sissy and Rachael 
helped themselves out of the smoke by the 
usual means, and were put down at a station 
about midway between the town and Mr. 
Bounderby’s retreat. 

Though the green landscape was blotted 
here and there with heaps of coal, it was green, 
elsewhere and there were trees to see, and there 
were larks singing (though it was Sunday), and 
there were pleasant scents in the air, and aU 
was overarched by a bright blue sky. In 
the distance one way, Coketown showed as a 
black mist ; in another distance, hills began 
to rise ; in a third, there was a faint change 
in the light of the horizon, where it shone upon 
the far-off sea. Under their feet, the grass 
was fresh 5 beautiful shadows of branches flick- 
ered upon it and speckled it ; hedgerows were 
luxuriant ; everything was at peace. Engines 
at pits’ mouths, and lean old horses that had 
worn the circle of their daily labor into the 
ground, were alike quiet ; wheels had ceased 
for a short space to turn ; and the great wheel 
of earth seemed to revolve without the shocks 
and noises of another time. 

They walked on across the fields and down 
the shady lanes, sometimes getting over a 
fragment of a fence so rotten that it dropped 
at a touch of the foot, sometimes passing near 
a wreck of bricks and beams overgrown with 
grass, marking the site of some deserted 
works. They followed paths and tracks how- 
ever slight, mounds where the grass was rank 
and high, and where brambles, dock-weeds, 
and such like vegetation were confusedly 
heaped together, they always avoided ; for dis- 
mal stories were told in that country of the 
old pits hidden beneath such indications. 

The sun was high when they set down to 
rest. They had seen no one, near or distant, 
for a long time, and the solitude remained 
unbroken. “It is so still here, Rachael, and 
the way is so untrodden, that I think we must 
be the first who have been here all the sum- 
mer.” 

As Sissy said it, her eyes were attracted by 
another of those rotten fragments of fence 
upon the ground. She got up to look at it. 
“ And yet I don’t know. This has not been 
broken very long. The wood is quite fresh 


HARD 

where it gave way. Here are footsteps too. 
O Rachael 1” 

She ran back and caught her round the 
neck. Rachael had already started up. 

“What is the matter?” 

“ I don’t know. There is a hat lying in the 
grass.” 

They went forward together. Rachael took 
it up, shaking from head to foot. She broke 
into a passion of tears and lamentations; 
Stephen Blackpool was written in his own 
hand on the inside. 

“ 0 the poor lad, the poor lad I He has 
been made away with. He is lying murdered 
here 1 ” 

“ Is there — has the hat any blood upon it?” 
Sissy faltered. 

They were afraid to look, but they did 
examine it, and found no mark of violence, 
inside or out. It had been lying there some 
days, for rain and dew had stained it, and it 
left the mark of its shape on the grass where 
it had fallen. They looked fearfully about 
them, without moving, but could see nothing 
more. “ Rachael,” Sissy whispered, “ I will 
go on a little by myself.” 

She had unclasped her hand, and was in the 
act of stepping forward, when Rachael caught 
her in both arms with a scream that resounded 
over the wide landscape. Before them, at 
their very feet, was the brink of a black, rag- 
ged chasm, hidden by the thick gras«» They 
sprang back, and fell upon their knees, each 
hiding her face upon the other’s neck. 

“0 my good God 1 He’s down there 1 Down 
there 1” At first this and her terrific screams 
were all that could be got from Rachael by 
any tears, by any prayers, by any representa- 
tions, by any means. It was impossible to 
hush her, and it was deadly necessary to hold 
her, or she would have distractedly flung her- 
self down the shaft. 

“Rachael, dear Rachael, good Rachapl, for 
the love of Heaven, not these dreadful cries I 
Think of Stephen, think of Stephen, think of 
Stephen !” 

By an earnest repetition of this entreaty, 

oured out in all the agony of such a time, 

issy at last brought her to be silent, and to 
look at her with a tearless face of stone. 

“Rachael, Stephen may be living. You 
wouldn’t leave him lying maimed at the bot- 
tom of this dreadful place a moment if you 
could bring help to him!” 

“No, no, no 1” 

“Don’t stir from here, for his sake ! Let 
me go and listen.” 

She shuddered to approach the pit, but she 
crept towards it on her hands and knees, and 
called to him as loud as she could call. She 
listened, but no sound replied. She called 
again and listened; still no answering sound. 
She did this twenty, thirty times. She took a 
clod of earth from the broken ground where 
he had stumbled, and threw it in. She could 
not hear it fail. 

The wide prospect, so beautiful in its still- 

12 


TIMES. 177 

ness but a few minutes ago, almost carried 
despair to her brave heart, as she rose and 
looked all round her seeing no help. “Rachael, 
we must lose not a moment. We must go in 
different directions, seeking aid. You shall 
go by the way we have come, and I will go 
forward by the path. Tell any one you see, 
and every one, what has happened. Think of 
Stephen, think of Stephen I” 

She knew by Rachael’s face that she might 
trust her now. After standing for a moment 
to see her running, wringing her hands as she 
went, she turned and went upon her own 
search ; she stopped at the hedge to tie her 
shawl there as a guide to the place, then 
threw her bonnet aside, and ran as she had 
never run before. 

Run, Sissy, run, in Heaven’s name 1 Don’t 
stop for breath. Run, run! Quickening 
herself by carrying such entreaties in her 
thoughts, she ran from field to field and lane 
to lane, and place to place, as she had never 
run before, until she came to a shed by an 
engine-house, where two men lay in the shade 
asleep on straw. 

First to wake them, and next to tell them 
all so wild and breathless as she was, what 
had brought her there, were difiiculties ; but 
they no sooner understood her than their spirits 
were on fire like hers. One of the men was in 
a drunken slumber, but on his comrade’s 
shouting to him that a man had fallen down 
the Old Hell Shaft, he started out to a pool 
of dirty water, put his head in it, and came 
back sober. 

With these two men she ran to another, half- 
a-mile further, and with that one to another, 
while they ran elsewhere. Then a horse was 
found, and she got another man to ride for life 
or death to the railroad, and send a message 
to Louisa, which she wrote and gave him. By 
this time a whole village was up; and wind- 
lasses, ropes, poles, buckets, candles, lanthorns, 
all things necessary, were fast collecting and 
being brought into one place to be carried 
to the Old Hell Shaft. 

It seemed now hours and hours since she 
had left the lost man lying in the grave where 
he had been buried alive. She could not bear 
to remain away from it any longer — it was 
like deserting him — and she hurried swiftly 
back, accompanied by half-a-dozen laborers, 
including the drunken man whom the news 
had sobered, and who was the best man of all. 
When they came to the Old Hell Shaft they 
found it as lonely as she had left it. The 
men called and listened as she had done, and 
examined the edge of the chasm, and settled 
how it had happened, and then sat down to 
wait until the implements they wanted should 
come up. 

Every sound of insects in the air, every 
stirring of the leaves, every whisper among 
these men, made Sissy tremble, for she thought 
it was a cry at the bottom of the pit. But the 
wind blew idly over it, and no sound arose to 
the surface, and they sat upon the grass, wait- 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


178 

ing and waiting. After they had waited some 
time, straggling people who had heard of the 
accident began to come up j then the real help 
of implements began to arrive. In the midst 
of this Rachael returned ; and with her party 
there was a surgeon, who brought some wine 
and medicines. But the expectation among 
the working pitmen that the man would be 
found alive, was very slight indeed. 

There being now people enough present* to 
impede the work 5 the sobered man put himself 
at the head of the rest, or was put there by the 
general consent, and made a large ring round 
the Old Hell Shaft, and appointed men to 
keep it. Besides such volunteers as were ac- 
cepted to work, only Sissy and Rachael were at 
first permitted within this ring ; but later in 
the day, when the message brought an express 
from Coketown, Mr. Gradgrind and Louisa, 
and Mr. Bounderby, and the whelp, were also 
there. 

The sun was four hours lower than when 
Sissy and Rachael had first sat down upon the 
grass, before a means of enabling two men to 
descend securely was rigged with poles and 
ropes. Difficulties had arisen in the con- 
struction of this machine, simple as it was ; 
requisites had been found wanting, and mes- 
sages had to go and return. It was five 
o’clock in the afternoon of a bright autumnal 
S inday, before a candle was sent down to try 
the air, while three or four rough faces stood 
crowded close together, all attentively watching 
ic : the men at the windlass lowering as they 
were told. The candle was broughtup again, 
feebly burning, and then some water was cast 
in. Then the bucket was hooked ©n, and the 
sobered man and another got in with lights, 
giving the word “Lower away I’’ 

As the rope went out, tight and strained, 
and the windlass creaked, there was not a 
breath among the one or two hundred men 
and women looking on, that came as it was wont 
to come. The signal was given and the windlass 
stopped, with abundant rope to spare. Appa- 
rently so long an interval ensued, with the men 
at the windlass standing idle, that some women 
shrieked that another accident had happened. 
But the surgeon who held the watch, declared 
five minutes not to have elapsed yet, and 
sternly admonished them to keep silence. He 
had not -vvell done speaking when the windlass 
was reversed and worked again. Practised 
eyes knew that it did not go as heavily as it 
would if both workmen had been coming up, 
and that^Quly one was returning. 

The rope came in tight and strained, and 
ring after ring was coiled upon the barrel of 
the windlass, and all eyes were fastened on 
the pit. The sobered man was brought up, 
and leaped out briskly on the grass. There 
was a universal cry o-f “ alive or dead ?” and 
then a deep, profound hush. 

When he said “ alive,” a great shout arose, 
and many eyes had tears in them. 

“ But he’s hurt very bad,” he added, as soon 
as he could make himself heard again. 


“ Where’s doctor ? He’s hurt so very bad, sir, 
that we donno how to get him up.” 

They all consulted together, and looked 
anxiously at the surgeon, as he asked some 
questions and shook his head on receiving the 
replies. The sun was setting now, and the red 
light in the evening sky touched every face 
there, and caused it to be distinctly seen in all 
its wrapt suspense. 

The consultation ended in the men return- 
ing to the windlass, and the pitman going 
down again, carrying the wine and some other 
small matters with him. Then the other man 
came up. In the mean time, under the sur- 
eon’s directions, some men brought a hur* 
le, on which others made a thick bed of spare 
clothes covered with loose straw, while he him- 
self contrived some bandages and slings from 
shawls and handkerchiefs. As these were 
made, they were hung upon the arm of the 
pitman who had last come up, with instruc- 
tions how to use them ; and as he stood, shown 
by the light he carried, leaning his powerful 
loose hand upon one of the poles, and some- 
times glancing down the pit and sometimes 
glancing round upon the people, he was not 
the least conspicuous figure in the scene. It 
was dark now, and torches were kindled. 

It appeared from the little this man said 
to those about him, which was quickly re- 
peated all over the circle, that the lost man 
had fallen upon a mass of crumbled rubbish 
with which the pit was half choked up, and 
that his fall had been further broken by some 
jagged earth at the side. He lay upon his 
back with one arm doubled under him, and 
according to his own belief had hardly stirred 
since he fell, except that he had moved his 
free hand to a side pocket, in which he re- 
membered to have some bread and meat (of 
which he had swallowed crumbs), -and had 
likewise scooped up a little water in it now and 
then. He had come straight away from his 
work on being written to ; and had walked the 
whole journey 5 and was on his way to Mr. 
Bounderby’s country-house after dark, when he 
fell. He was crossing that dangerous country 
at such a dangerous time because he was 
wholly innocent of what was laid to his charge, 
and couldn’t rest from coming the nearest way 
to deliver himself up. The Old Hell Shaft, 
the pitman said, with a curse upon it, was 
worthy of its bad name to the last ; for though 
Stephen could speak now, he believed it would 
soon be found to have mangled the life out of 
him. 

When all was ready, this man still taking 
his last hurried charges from his comrades 
and the surgeon, after the windlass had begun 
to lower him, disappeared into the pit. The 
rope went out as before, the signal was made 
as before, and the windlass stopped. No man 
removed his hand from it now. Every one 
waited with his grasp set, and his body bent 
down to the work, ready to reverse and wind 
in. At length the signal was given, and all 
the ring leaned forward. 


179 


HARD 

For now the rope came in tightened and 
strained to its utmost as it appeared, and the 
men turned heavily, and the windlass com- 
plained It was scarcely endurable to look 
at the rope, and think of its giving way. But 
ring after ring was coiled upon the barrel of 
the windlass safely, and the connecting chains 
appeared, and finally the bucket with the two 
men holding on at the sides— a sight to make 
the head swim, and oppress the heart — and 
tenderly supporting between them, slung and 
tied within, the figure of a poor crushed human 
creature. 

A low murmur of pity went round the 
throng, and the women wept aloud, as this 
form, almost without form, was moved very 
slowly from its iron deliverance, and laid 
upon the bed of straw. At first, none but the 
surgeon went close to it. He did what he 
could in its adjustment on the couch, but the 
best that he could do was to cover it. That 
gently done, he called to him Rachael and 
Sissy, and at that time the pale, worn, patient 
face was seen looking up at the sky, with the 
broken right hand lying bare on the outside of 
the covering garments, as if waiting to be taken 
by another hand. 

They gave him drink, moistened his face 
with water, and administered some drops of 
cordial and wine. Though he lay quite mo- 
tionless looking up at the sky, he smiled and 
said, “Rachael.” 

She stooped down on the grass at his side, 
and bent over him until her eyes were between 
his and the sky, for he could so much as 
turn them to look at her. 

“ Rachael, my dear.” 

She took his hand. He smiled again and 
said, “Don’t let it go.” 

“Thou’rt in great pain, my own dear Ste- 
phen T’ 

“ I ha’ been, but not now. I ha’ been — 
dreadful, and dree, and long, my dear — but 
’tis ower now. Ah Rachel, aw a muddle I Fro’ 
first to last, a muddle! ” 

The spectre of his old look seemed to pass 
as he said the word. 

“ I ha’ fell into th’ pit, my dear, as have 
cost wi’in the knowledge o’ old fok now livin’ 
hundreds and hundreds o’ men’s lives — 
fathers, sons, brothers, dear to thousands an’ 
thousands, and keepin’ ’em fro’ want and 
hunger. I ha’ fell into a pit that ha’ been 
wi’ th’ fire-damp crueller than battle. I ha’ 
read on’t in the public petition, as onny one 
may read, fro’ the men that works in pits, in 
which they ha’ pray’n an pray’n the law- 
makers for Christ’s sake not to let their 
work be murder to ’em, but to spare ’em for 
th’ wives and children that they loves as well 
as gentlefolk loves theirs. When it were in 
work, it killed wi’out need ; when ’tis let alone, 
it kills wi’out need. See how we die an’ no 
need, one way an’ another — in a muddle every 
day I” 

He faintly said it, without any anger against 
any one. Merely as the truth. 


TIMES. 

“Thy little sister, Rachael, thou hast not 
forgot her. Thou’rt not like to forget her now, 
and me so nigh her. Thou know'st, poor, 
atient, suflp’rin’ dear, how thou didst work for 
er, sett’n all day long in her little chair at thy 
window; an’ she died, young and misshapen 
awlung o’ sickly air as had’n no need to be, 
an’awlung o’ workin’ people’s miserable homes. 
A muddle 1 Aw a muddle I” 

Louisa approached him, but he could not 
see her, lying with his face turned up to the 
night sky. 

“If aw th’ things that touches us, my dear, 
was not so muddled, I should’n ha’ had’n need 
to coom heer. If we was not in a muddle 
among ourseln, I should’n ha’ been by my 
own fellow weavers and workin’ brothers, so 
mistook. If Mr. Bounderby had ever knowd 
me right — rather if he’d ever know’d me at 
aw — he would’n’ ha’ took’n ofience wi’ me. — 
He would’n’ ha’ suspect’n me. But look up 
yonder, Rachael ! Look above.” 

Following his eyes, she saw that he was 
gazing at a star. 

“ It ha! shined upon me ” he said reverently, 
“ ill my pain and trouble down below. It ha’ 
shined into my mind. I ha’ look’n an’ thout 
o’ thee, Rachael, till the muddle in my mind 
have cleared awa above a bit, I hope. If soom 
ha’ been wantin’ in unnerstannin’ me better, I, 
too, ha’ been wantin’ in unnerstannin’ them 
better. When I got thy letter, I easily believed 
that what the yoong lady sen an’ done to me, 
an’ what her brother sen an’ done to me were 
one, an’ that there were a wicked plot betwixt 
un. When I fell, I were in anger wi’ her, an’ 
hurryin’ on t’ be as onjust t’ her as others was 
t’ me. But in our judgment like as in our 
doins, we mun bear and forbear. In my 
pain an’ trouble lookin up yonder, — wi’ it 
shinin’ on me — I ha’ seen more clear and ha’ 
made it my dying prayer that aw’ th’ world 
may on’y come together more, an’ get a bet- 
ter unnerstannin’ o’ one another, than when I 
weve in’t my own weak seln.” 

Louisa hearing what he said, bent over him 
on the opposite side to Rachael, so that he 
could see her. 

“You ha’ heard?” he said, after a few mo- 
ments’ silence, “I ha’ not forgot yo’, leddy.” 

“Y es, Stephen, I have heard you. And your 
prayer is mine.” 

“You ha’ a father. Will yo’ tak a message 
to him ?” 

“He is here,” said Louisa, with dread. — 
“Shall I bring him to you ?” 

“If yo’ please.” 

Louisa returned with her father. Standing 
hand-in-hand, they both looked down upon his 
solemn countenance. 

“Sir, yo’ will clear me an’ mak’ my name 
good wi’ aw men. 'J'his I leave to yo’.” 

Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how ? 

“Sir,” was the reply, “yor son will tell yo 
how. Ask him. I mak’ no charges. I leave 
none ahint me, not a single word. I ha’ seen 
1 an’ spok’n wi’ your son, one night. I ask no 


180 


DICKEN^S NEW STORIES. 


more o’ yo’ than that yo clear me — an’ I trust 
to yo to do’t.” 

The bearers being now ready to carry him 
away, and the surgeon being anxious for his 
removal, those who had torches or lanterns, 
prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it 
was raised,and while they were arranginsr how 
to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward at 
the star, — 

“ Often as I coom to myseln, and found it 
shinin’ on me down there in my trouble, I 
thowt it were the star as guided to Our Sa- 
viour’s home, I awmust think it be the very 
star !” 

They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed 
to find that they were about to take him in 
the direction whither the star seemed to him to 
lead. 

^‘Rachael, beloved lass! Don’t let go my 
hand. We may walk together t’night my dear!” 

will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, 
Stephen, all the way.” 

“Bless thee I Will soombody be pleased to 
coovermy face?” 

They carried him very gently along the 
fields, and down the lanes, and over the wide 
landscape ; Rachael always holding the hand in 
hers. V ery few whispers broke the mournful 
silence. It was soon a funeral procession. 
The star had shown him where to find the God 
of the poor; and through humility, and sorrow, 
and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeem- 
er’s rest. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Before the ring formed round the Old Hell 
Shaft was broken, one figure had disappeared 
from within it. Mr. Bounderby and his shadow 
had not stood near Louisa, who held her father’s 
arm, but in a retired place by themselves. 
When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to the 
couch. Sissy, attentive to all that happened, 
slipped behind that wicked shadow — a sight in 
the horror of his face, if there had been eyes 
there for any sight but one — and whispered in 
his ear. Without turning his head, for she 
had begun by telling him not even to look 
round, he conferred with her a few moments, 
and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out 
of the circle before the people moved. 

When the father reached home, he sent a 
message to Mr. Bounderby’s, desiring his son 
to come to him directly. The reply was, that 
Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the 
crowd, and seen nothing of him since, had 
supposed him to be at Stone Lodge. 

“ I believe, father,” said Louisa, “ he will 
not come back to town to-night.” Mr. Grad- 
grind turned away and said no more. 

In the morning, he went down to the Bank 
himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing 
his son’s pi ace empty, (he had not the courage 
to look in at first,) went back along the street 
to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To 
whom he said that, for reasons he would soon 
explain, but entreated not then to be asked 
for, he had found it necessary to employ his 


son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he 
was charged with the duty of vindicating Ste- 
phen Blackpool’s memory, and declaring the 
thief. Mr. Bounderby, quite confounded, stood 
stock still in the street after his father-in-law 
had left him, swelling like an immense soap- 
bubble, without its beauty. 

Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in 
his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy 
and Louisa tapped at his door, he said, with- 
out opening it, “Not now, my dears; in the 
evening.” On their return in the evening, he 
said, “I am not able yet — to-morrow.” He 
ate nothing all day, and had no candle after 
dark, and they heard him walking to and fro 
late at night. 

But in the morning he appeared at breakfast 
at the usual hour, and took his usual place at 
the table. Aged and bent he looked, and quite 
bowed down ; and yet he looked a wiser man, 
and a better man, than in the days when in 
this life he wanted nothing but facts. Before 
he left the room, he appointed a time for them 
to come to him, and so, with his gray head 
drooping, went away. 

“ Dear father,” said Louisa, when they kept 
their appointment, “you have three young 
children left. They will be different. I will 
be different yet, with Heaven’s help.” 

She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant 
with the help of her loving heart. 

“Your wretched brother,” said Mr. Grad- 
grind. “Do you think he had planned this 
robbery, when he went with you to the lodging?” 

“ I fear so, father. I know he had wanted 
money very much, and had spent a great deal.” 

“The poor man being about to leave the 
town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspi- 
cion on him ?” 

“ I think it must have flashed upon him while 
he sat there, father. For I asked him to go 
there with me. The visit did not originate 
with him.” 

“ He had some conversation with the poor 
man. Did he take him aside ?” 

“He took him out of the room. I asked him 
afterwards, why he had done so, and he made 
a plausible excuse; but since last night, father, 
and when I remember the circumstances by 
its light, I am afraid I can imagine too truly 
what passed between them.” 

“ Let me know,” said her father, “ if your 
thoughts present your guilty brother in the 
same dark view as mine do.” 

“I am afraid, father,” reiterated Louisa, 
“that he must have made some representation 
to Stephen Blackpool — perhaps in my name, 
perhaps in his own — which induced him to do 
in good faith and honesty, what he had never 
done before, and to wait about the Bank those 
two or three nights before he left the town.” 

“ Too plain 1” returned the father. “ Too 
plain !” 

He shaded his face, and remained silent for 
some moments. Recovering himself, he said: 

“ And now, how is he to be found ? How is 
he to be saved from justice ? In the few hours 


HARD 

that I can possibly allow to elapse before I 
publish the truth, how is he to be found by us 
and only by us ? Ten thousand pounds could 
not effect it.” 

“ Sissy has effected it, father.” 

He raised his eyes to where she stood, like 
a good fairy in his house, and said in a tone of 
Botlened gratitude and grateful kindness, “ It 
is always you, my child.” 

“ We had our fears,” Sissy explained, 
glancing at Louisa, “before yesterday; and 
when I saw you brought to the side of the lit- 
ter last night, and heard what passed (being 
close to Rachael all the time), I went to him 
when no one saw, and said to him, ‘ Don’t 
look at me 1 See where your father is. Es- 
cape at once, for his sake and your own !’ He 
was in a tremble before I whispered to him, 
and he started and trembled more, and said, 
^ Where can I go ? I have very little money, 
and I don’t know who will hide me!’ I 
thought of father’s old circus. I have not 
forgotten where Mr. Sleary goes at this time 
of year, and I read of him in a paper only the 
other day. I told him to hurry there, and 
tell his name, and ask Mr. Sleary to hide him 
till I came. ‘ I’ll get to him before the morn- 
ing,’ he said. And I saw him shrink away 
among the people.” 

“ Thank God 1” exclaimed his father. “He 
may be got abroad yet.” 

It was the more hopeful, as the town to 
which Sissy had directed him was within three 
hours’ journey of Liverpool, whence he could 
be swiftly despatched to any part of the world. 
But caution being necessary in communicating 
with him — for there was a greater danger every 
moment of his being suspected now, and no- 
body could be sure at heart but that Mr. Boun- 
derby himself, in a bullying view of public 
zeal, might play a Roman part — it was con- 
sented that Sissy and Louisa should repair to 
the place in question, by a circuitous course, 
alone; and that the unhappy father, setting 
forth at another time, and leaving the town by 
an opposite direction, should get round to the 
same bourne by another and wider route. It 
was further agreed that he should not present 
himself to Mr. Sleary, lest his intentions should 
be mistrusted, or the intelligence of his arrival 
should cause his son to take flight anew; but 
that the communication should be left to Sissy 
and Louisa to open, and that they should in- 
form the cause of so much misery and disgrace 
of his father’s being at hand and of the pur- 
pose for which they had come. When these 
arrangements had been well considered and 
were fully understood by all three, it was time 
to begin to carry them into execution. Early 
in the afternoon Mr. Gradgrind walked direct 
from his own house into the country, to be 
taken up on the line by which he was to travel; 
and at night the remaining two set forth upon 
their different course, encouraged by not see- 
ing any face they knew. 

The two travelled all right, except when 
they were left for odd numbers of minutes at 


TIMES. 231 

branch places up illimitable flights of steps or 
down wells — which was the only variety of 
those branches — and, early in the morning, 
were turned out on a swamp, a mile or two 
from the town they sought. From this dismal 
spot they were rescued by a savage old postil- 
lion, who happened to be up early, kicking a 
horse in a fly, and so were smuggled into the 
town by all the back lanes where the pigs lived ; 
which, although not a magnificent or even sa- 
vory approach, was, as is usual in such cases, 
the legitimate highway. 

The first thin^ they saw on entering the 
town was the skeleton of Sleary’s Circus. The 
company had departed for another town more 
than twenty miles off, and had opened there 
last night. The connexion between the two 
places was by a hilly turnpike road, and the 
travelling on that road was very slow. Though 
they took but a hasty breakfast, and no rest, 
(which it would have been in vain to seek under 
such anxious circumstances,) it was noon be- 
fore they began to find the bills of Sleary’s 
Horseriding on barns and walls, and one o’clock 
when they stopped in the market place. 

A Grand Morning Performance by the Rid- 
ers commencing at that very hour, was in 
course of announcement by the bellman as 
they set their feet upon the stones of the street. 
Sissy recommended that, to avoid making in- 
quiries and attracting attention in the town, 
they should present themselves to pay at the 
door. If Mr. Sleary were taking the money, 
he would be sure to know her, and would pro- 
ceed with discretion. If he were not, he would 
be sure to see them inside, and knowing what 
he had done with the fugitive, would proceed 
with discretion still. 

Therefore they repaired with fluttering hearts 
to the well-remembered booth. The flag with 
the inscription, “Sleary’s Horse-Riding,” was 
there, and the Gothic niche was there, but Mr. 
Sleary was not there. Master Kidderminster, 
grown too maturely turfy to be received by the 
wildest credulity as Cupid any more, had yield- 
ed to the invincible force of circumstances (and 
his beard), and in the capacity of a man who 
made himself generally useful, presided on tnis 
occasion over the exchequer — having also a 
drum in reserve, on which to expend his lei- 
sure moments and superfluous forces. In the 
extreme sharpness of his look out for base coin, 
Mr. Kidderminster, as at present situated, 
never saw anything but money; so Sissy pass- 
ed him unrecognised, and they went in. 

The Emperor of Japan on a steady old white 
horse stencilled with black spots, was twirling 
five wash-hand basins at once, as it is the fa- 
vorite recreation of that monarch to do. Sissy, 
though well acquainted with his Royal line, 
had no personal knowledge of the present Em- 
peror, and his reign was peaceful. Miss Jose- 
phine Sleary in her celebrated graceful Eques- 
trian Tyrolean Flower Act, was then an- 
nounced by a new clown (who humorously said 
Cauliflower Act), and Mr. Sleary appeared, 
leading her in. 


182 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


Mr. Sleary had only made one cut at the 
Clown with his long whip lash, and the Clown 
had only said, “If you do it again, I’ll throw 
the horse at you I” when Sissy was recognised 
both by father and daughter. But they got 
through the Act with groat self possession, and 
Mr. Sleary, saving for the first instant, convey- 
ed no more expression into his locomotive eye 
than into his fixed one. The performance 
seemed a little long to Sissy and Louisa in 
their suspense, particularly when it stopped to 
afford the Clown an opportunity of telling Mr. 
Sleary (who said “ Indeed, sir ?” to all his ob- 
servations in the calmest way, and with his 
eye on the house) about two legs sitting on 
three legs looking at one leg, when in came 
four legs, and laid hold of one leg, and up got 
two legs, caught hold of three legs, and threw 
’em at four legs, who ran away with one leg.’ 
For although an ingenious Allegory relating 
to a butcher, a three legged stool, a dog, and 
a leg of mutton, this narrative consumed time, 
and they were painfully anxious. At last, 
however, little fair-haired Josephine made 
her curtesy amid great applause ; and the 
Clown, left alone in the ring, had just warmed 
himself and said, “ Now i’ZZ have a turn I” 
when Sissy was touched on the shoulder and 
beckoned out. 

She took Louisa with her, and they were 
received by Mr. Sleary in a very little private 
apartment, with canvas sides, a grass floor, 
and a wooden ceiling all aslant, on which the 
box company stamped their approbation as if 
they were coming through. “Thethilia,” said 
Mr. Sleary, who had brandy and water at hand, 
“it doth me good to thee you. You wath 
alwayth a favorite with uth, and you’ve done 
nth credit thinth the old timeth I’m thure.> 
You mutht thee our people, my dear, afore we 
thpeak ofbithnith, or they’ll break their hearth 
— ethpethially the women. Here’th Jothphine 
hath been and got married to E. W. B. Chil- 
derth, and thee hath got a boy, and though 
he’th only three yearth old, he stickth on to 
any pony you can bring againtht him. He’th 
named The Little Wonder Of Thcolathtic Equi- 
tation; and if you don’t hear of that boy at 
Athley’th, you’ll hear of him at Parith. — 
And you recollect Kidderminthter, that wath 
thought to be rather thweet upon yourthelf? 
Well. He’th married too. Married a widder. 
Old enough to be hith mother. Thee wath 
Tightrope, thee wath, and nowthee’th nothing 
— on account of fat. They’ve got two children, 
tho we’re thtrong in the Fairy bithnith and the 
Nurthery dodge. If you wath to thee our 
Children in the Wood, with their father and 
mother both a dyiu’ on a horthe — their uncle a 
rethieving of ’em ath hith wardth, on a horthe, 
then they both a goin’ a blackberryin’ on a 
horthe — and theRobinth a coming to cover ’em 
with leavth, upon a horthe— you’d thay that 
wath the completeth thing ath ever you thet 
your eyeth onl And you remember Emma 
Gordon, my dear, ath wath a’motht a mother 
to you ? Of courthe you do j I needn’t athk. 


Well. Emma, thee lotht her huthband. He 
wath throw’d a heavy back-fall off an Elephant 
in a thort of Pagoda thing ath the Thultan of 
the Indieth, and he never got the better of it, 
and thee married a thecond time; married a 
Cheethemonger ath fell in love with her from 
the front, and he’th a Overtheer and makin’ a 
fortun’l” 

These various changes Mr. Sleary, very short 
of breath now, related with great heartiness, 
and with a wonderful kind of innocence, con- 
sidering what a bleary and brandy-and-watery 
old veteran he was. Afterwards he brought in 
Josephine, and E. W. B. Childers (rather 
deeply lined in the jaws by daylight) and The 
Little Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and, 
in a word, all the company. Amazing crea- 
tures they were in Louisa’s eyes, so white and 
pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and so 
demonstrative of leg ; but it was very pleasant, 
for all that, to see them crowding about Sissy, 
and very natural in Sissy to be unable to re- 
frain from tears. 

“ There I Now Thethilia hath kitht all the 
children, and hugged all the women, and tha- 
ken handth all round with the men, clear, 
every one of you, and ring in the band for the 
thecond parti” said Sleary. 

As soon as they were gone, he continued in 
a low tone. “ Now, Thethilia, I don’t athk to 
know any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may 
consider thith to be Mith Thquire.” 

“ This is his sister. Yes.” 

“And t’other one’th daughter. That’h 
what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. — 
And I hope the Thquire’th well ?” 

“ My father will be here soon,” said Louisa, 
anxious to bring him to the point. “ Is my 
brother safe ?” 

“ Thafe and thound I” he replied. “ I want 
you jutht to take a peep at the ring, mith, 
through here. Thethilia, you know the dodg- 
eth ; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf.” 

They each looked through a chink in the 
boards. 

“That’th Jack the Giant Killer — a piethe of 
comic infant bithnith,” said Sleary. “ There’th 
a property-houthe, jou thee, for Jack to hide 
in; there’th ray Clown with a thauthepan-lid 
and a thpitfor Jack’th thervant ; there’th little 
Jackhimthelf in athplendid thoot of armour; 
there’th two comic black thervanth twithe ath 
big ath the houthe, to thand by it and to bring 
it in and clear it ; and the Giant (a very ex- 
penthive bathket one), he an’t on yet. Now 
do you thee ’em all?” 

“Yes,” they both said. 

“ Look at ’em again,’' said Sleary, “ look at 
’em well. You thee ’em all ? Very good. 
Now, mith ;” he pt a form for them to sit on ; 
“ I have my opiuionth, and the Thquire your 
father hath hith. I don’t want to know what 
your brother’th been up to ; ith better for me 
not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath 
thtood by Thethilia, and I’ll thtand by the 
Thquire, Your brother ith one o’ them black 
thervanth.” 


' HARD 

Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of dis- 
tress, partly of satisfaction. 

“Ith a fact,” said Sleary, “and even know- 
in that, you couldn’t put your finger on him. 
Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your bro- 
ther here after the performanth. I thant un- 
dreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the 
Thquire come here after the performanth, or 
come here yourthelf after the performanth, and 
you thall find your brother, and have the whole 
plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth 
of him ath long ath he’th well hid.” 

Louisa, with many thanks and with a light- 
ened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. 
She left her love for her brother, with her eyes 
full of tears, and she and Sissy went away until 
later in the afternoon. 

Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour after- 
wards. He too had encountered no one whom 
he knew, and was now sanguine, with Sleary’s 
assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Li- 
verpool in the night. As neither of the three 
could be his companion without almost identi- 
fying him under any disguise, he prepared a 
letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, 
beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any 
cost, to North or South America, or any dis- 
tant part of the world to which he could be the 
most speedily and privately dispatched. This 
done, they walked about, waiting for the Cir- 
cus to be quite vacated : not only by the audi- 
ence, but by the company and by the horses. — 
After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. 
Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the 
side door, smoking, as if that were his signal 
that they might approach. 

“ Your thervant, Thquire,” was his cautious 
salutation as they passed in. “ If you want 
me you’ll find me here. You muthn’t mind 
your son having a comic livery on.” 

They all three went in, and Mr. Gradgrind 
sat down, forlorn, on the Clown’s performing 
chair in the middle of the ring. On one of 
the back benches, remote in the subdued light 
and the strangeness of the place, sat the vil- 
lanous whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had 
the misery to call his son. 

In a preposterous coat, like a beadle’s, with 
cuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable 
extent, in an immense waistcoat, knee-breeches 
buckled shoes, and a mad cocked-hat, with 
nothing fitting him, and everything of coarse 
material, moth-eaten and full of holes ; with 
seams in his black face, where fear and heat 
had started through the greasy composition 
daubed all over it ; anything so grimly, detest- 
ably, ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his 
comic livery, Mr. Gradgrind never could by 
any other means have believed in, weighable 
and measurable fact though it was. And one 
of his model children had come to this I 

At first the whelp would not draw any near- 
er, but persisted in remaining up there by him- 
self. Yielding at length, if any concession so 
sullenly made can be called yielding, to the 
entreaties of Sissy — for Louisa he disowned 
altogether — he came down bench by bench 


TIMES. 183 

until he stood in the sawdust, on the verge of 
the circle, as far as possible, within its limits, 
from where his father sat. 

“How was this done ?” asked the father. 

“ How was what done ?” moodily inquired 
the son. 

‘•This robbery,” said the father, raising his 
voice upon the word. 

“I forced the safe myself over night, and 
shut it up ajar before I went away. I had the 
key that was found made long before. I drop- 
ped it that morning, that it might be supposed 
to have been used. I didn’t take the money 
all at once ; I pretended to put my balance 
away every night, but I didn’t. Now you 
know all about it. 

“If a thunderbolt had fallen on me,” said 
the father, “it would have shocked me less 
than this.” 

“ I don’t see why,” returned the son. “So 
many people are employed in situations of 
trust ; so many people out of so many will be 
dishonest. I have heard you talk, a hundred 
times, of its being a law. How can I helplaws? 
You have comforted others with such things, 
father. Comfort yourself. 

The father buried his face in his hands, and 
the son stood in his disgraceful grotesqueness, 
biting straw. His hands, with the black p’lrt- 
ly worn away inside, looking like the hands of 
a monkey. The evening was fast closing in, 
and from time to time he turned the whites of 
his eyes restlessly and impatiently towards his 
father. They were the only parts of his face 
that showed any life or expression, the pigment 
upon it was so thick. 

“ You must be got to Liverpool, and sent on 
board.” 

“ I suppose I must. I can’t be more miser- 
able anywhere,” whimpered the whelp, “than 
I have been here, ever since I can remember. 
That’s one thing.” 

Mr. Gradgrind went to the door, and re- 
turned with Sleary ; to whom he submitted the 
question — how to get this deplorable object 
away. 

“ Why, I’ve been thinking of it, Thquire. — 
There’th not muth time to lothe, tho you muth 
thay yeth or no. Ith over twenty mileth to 
the rail. Thereth a coath in half an hour, that 
gothe to the rail, purpothe to cath the mail 
train. That train will take him right to Liver- 
pool.” 

“But look at him,” groaned Mr. Gradgrind. 
“ Will any coach — ” 

“I don’t mean that he thould go in the 
comic livery,” said Sleary. “ Thay the word, 
and I’ll make a jothkin of him out of the ward- 
robe in five minutes.” 

“ I don’t understand,” said Mr. Gradgrind. 

“A jothkin — a carter. Make up your mind 
quick, Thquire ; there’ll be beer to feth. I’v( 
never met with nothing but beer ath’ll ever 
clean a comic blackamoor.” 

Mr. Gradgrind rapidly assented. Mr. Sleary 
rapidly turned out from a box a smock frock, 
a felt hat, and other essentials ; the whelp 


184 


DICKENS’ NEW STOKIES. 


rapidly changed clothes behind a screen of 
baize; Mr. Sleary rapidly brought beer, and 
washed him white again. 

“Now,” said Sleary, “come along to the 
coath, and jump up behind; I’ll go with you 
there, and they’ll thuppothe you one of my 
people. Thay farewell to your family, and 
tharp’th the word.” With which he delicately 
retired. 

“Here is your letter,” said Mr. Gradgrind. 
“All necessary means will be provided for you. 
Atone by repentance and better conduct for 
this shocking act of dishonesty, and the dread- 
ful consequences to which it has led. Give me 
your hand, my poor boy, and may God forgive 
you, as I do.” 

The culprit was moved to a few abject tears 
by these words, and their pathetic tone. But 
when Louisa opened her arms, he repulsed her. 
afresh. 

“ Not you. No. I don’t want to have any- 
thing to say to you.” 

“ 0 Tom, Tom, do we end so, after all my 
love ?” 

“ After all your love !” he returned, obdu- 
rately. “ Pretty love I Leaving old Bounder- 
by to himself, and packing my best friend, 
Mr. Harthouse, off, and going home just when 
I was in the greatest danger. Pretty love that! 
Coming out with every word about our having 
gone to that place, when you saw the net was 
gathering round me. Pretty love that I You 
have regularly given me up. You never cared 
for me.” 

“ Tharp’th the word I” said Sleary, at the 
door. 

They all confusedly went out, Louisa crying 
to him that she forgave him his ingratitude, 
and loved him still, and that he would one day 
be sorry to have left her so, and glad to think 
of those her last words when far away ; when 
some one ran against them. Mr. Gradgrind 
and Sissy, who were both before him while his 
sister yet clung to his shoulder, stopped and 
recoiled. 

For there was Bitzer, out of breath, his thin 
Ups parted, his thin nostrils distended, his 
white eye-lashes quivering, his colorless face 
more colorless than ever, as if he ran himself 
into a white heat, when other people ran them- 
selves into a glow. There he stood, panting 
and heaving as if he had never stopped since 
the night, now long ago, when he had run them 
■ down before. 

“ I’m sorry to interfere with your plans,” 
•said Bitzer, shaking his head, “but I can’t 
-allow myself to be done by horse-riders. I must 
have young Mr. Tom ; he musn’t be got away 
by horseriders ; here he is in a smock frock, 
-and I must have him.” 

By the collar, too, it seemed ; for so he took 
ipossession of him. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

They went back into the booth, Sleary shut- 
ting the door to keep intruders out, and Bitzer, 


still holding the paralyzed culprit by the collar, 
stood in the ring blinking at his old patron 
through the darkness of the twilight. 

“Bitzer,” said Mr. Gradgrind, broken down, 
and miserably submissive to him, “have you a 
heart ?” 

“The circulation, sir,” returned Bitzer, smil- 
ing at the oddity of the question, “couldn’t be 
carried on without one. No man, sir, acquaint- 
ed with the facts established by Harvey, relat- 
ing to the circulation of the blood, can doubt 
that I must have a heart.” 

“Is it accessible,” cried Mr. Gradgrind, “to 
any compassionate influence ?” 

“It is accessible to reason, sir,” returned the 
excellent young man — “and to nothing else.” 

They stood looking at each other, Mr. Grad- 
grind’s face as white as the pursuer’s. 

“What motive — even what motive in reason, 
can you have for preventing the escape of this 
wretched youth,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “and 
crushing his miserable father? See his sister 
here. Pity us !” 

“Sir,” returned Bitzer, in a very business- 
like and logical manner, ^‘since you ask me 
what motive I have in reason for taking young 
Mr. Tom back to Coketown, it is only reason- 
able to let you know. I have suspected young 
Mr. Tom of this Bank robbery from the flrst, 
I had had my eye upon him before that time, 
and I knew his ways. I have kept my observa- 
tions to myself, but I have made them, and, I 
have got ample proofs against him now, besides 
his running away, and besides his own confes- 
sion, which I was just in time to overhear. I 
had the pleasure of watching your house yes 
ber-lay morning, and following you here. I am 
going to take young Mr. Tom back to Coketown, 
in order to deliver him over to Mr. Bounderby. 
Sir, I have no doubt whatever that Mr. Boun- 
derby will then promote me to young Mr. 
Tom’s situation. And I wish to have his situ- 
ation, sir, for it will be a rise to me and will 
do me good.” 

“If this is solely a question of selfinterest 
with you ” Mr. Gradgrind began. 

“ I beg your pardon for interrupting you, 
sir,” said Bitzer ; “ but I am sure you know 
that the whole social system is a question of 
self-interest. What you must always appeal 
to, is a person’s self interest. It’s your only 
hold. We are so constituted. I was brought 
up in that catechism when I was young, sir, 
as you are aware. 

“ VT'hat sum of money,” said Mr. Gradgrind, 
“ will you set against your expected promo- 
tion ? ” 

“Thank you, sir,” returned Bitzer,” “for 
hinting at the proposal ; but I will not set any 
sum against it. Knowing that your clear head 
would propose that alternative, I have gone 
over the calculations in my mind ; and I find 
that to compound a felony, even on very high 
terms indeed, would not be as safe and good 
for me as my improved prospects in the Bank.” 

“ Bitzer,’’ said Mr. Gradgrind, stretching 
out his hands as though he would have said— 


HAUD TIMES. 185 


See how miserable I am I “ Bltzer, I have but 
one chance left to soften you. You were many 
years at my school. If, in remembrance of the 
pains bestowed on you, you can persuade 
yourself in any degree to disregard your pre- 
sent interest and release my son, I entreat 
and pray you to give him the benefit of that 
remembrance.’^ 

_ “I really wonder, sir,’^ rejoined the old pu- 
pil, in an argumentative manner, “ to find you 
tiiking a position so untenable. My schooling 
was paid for ; it was a bargain ; and when I 
came away, the bargain ended.” 

It was a fundamental principle of the Grad- 
grind philosophy, that everything was to be 
paid for. Nobody was ever on any account to 
give anybody anything, or render anybody help 
without return. Gratitude was to be abolished, 
and the virtues springing from it were not to 
be. The whole existence of mankind, from 
birth to death, was to be a bargain across a 
counter. And if we did’nt get to Heaven that 
way, it was not a politico-economical place, and 
we had no business there. 

“ I don’t deny,” added Bitzer, “ that my 
schooling was cheap. But that comes right. 
I was made in the cheapest market, and have 
to dispose of myself in the dearest.” 

He was a little troubled here, by Louisa and 
Sissy crying. 

“ Pray don’t do that,” said he, “ it’s of no 
use doing that ; it only worries. You seem to 
think that I have some animosity against 
young Mr. Tom ; whereas I have none at all. 
I am only going, on the reasonable grounds I 
have mentioned, to take him back to Coke- 
town. If he was to resist, I should set up the 
cry of Stop Thief 1 But he won’t resist, you 
may depend upon it.” 

Mr. Sleary, who, with his mouth open and 
his rolling eye as immovably jammed in his 
head as his fixed one, had listened to those 
doctrines with profound attention, here stepped 
forward. 

“Th quire, you know perfectly well, and your 
daughter knowth perfectly well (better than 
you, becauthe I thed it to her) that I didn’t 
know what your thon had done, and that I 
didn’t want to know — that I thed it wath better 
not, though I only thought it wath some thky- 
larking. However, thith young man having 
made it known to be a robbery of a bank, why, 
that’th a theriouth ' thing; muth too theriouth 
a thing for me to compound, ath thith young 
man hath very properly called it; conthe- 
quently, Thquire, you muth’nt quarrel with 
me if I take thith young man’th thide, and thay 
he’th right and there’th no help for it. But I 
tell you what I’ll do, Thquire ; I’ll drive your 
thon and thith young man over to the rail, and 
prevent expothure here. I can’t conthent to 
do more, but I’ll do that.” 

Fresh lamentations from Louisa, and deeper 
afiliction on Mr. Gradgrmd’s part followed this 
desertion of them by their last friend. But 
rissy glanced at him with great attention; nor 
( jd she in her own breast misunderstand him, 


for as they were all going out again, he favored 
her with one slight roll of his movable eye, de- 
siring her to linger behind. As he locked the ' 
door he said excitedly; 

“The Thquire thtood by you, Thethilia, and 
I’ll thtand by the Thquire. More than that, 
Thith ith a prethiouth rathcal and belongth to 
that bluthtering Cove that my people nearly 
pitht out o’ winder. It’ll be a dark night; I’ve 

? ;ot a horthe that’ll do anything but thpeak; 
’ve got a pony that’ll go fifteen mile an hour 
with Childerth driving of him ; I’ve got a dog 
that’ll keep a man to one plathe four-and- 
twenty hourth. Get a word with the young 
Thquire. Tell him when he theeth our horthe 
begin to danth, not to be afraid of being thpilt, 
but to look out for a pony gig coming up. Tell 
him when he theeth that gig clothe by, to jump 
down, and it’ll take him off at a rattling pathe. 
If my dog leth thith young man thtir a peg or 
foot, I give him leave to go. And if my horthe 
ever thtirth from that thpot where he beginth 
a danthing, till the morning — I don’t know 
him! Tharp’th the word I” 

The word was so sharp that in ten minutes 
Mr. Childers, sauntering about the market 
place in a pair of slippers, had his cue, and 
Mr. Sleary’s equipage was ready. It was a 
fine sight, to behold the learned dog barking 
round it, and Mr. Sleary instructing him with 
his one practicable eye, that Bitzer was the 
object of his particular attentions. Soon after 
dark they all three got in and started ; the 
learned dog (a formidable creature) already 
pinning Bitzer with his eye, and sticking close 
to the wheel on his side, that he might be 
ready for him in the event of his showing the 
slightest disposition to alight. 

The three sat up at the inn all night in 
great suspense ; at eight o’clock in the morn- 
ing Mr. Sleary and the dog re-appeared : both 
in high spirits. 

“ All right, Thquire!” said Mr. Sleary, “your 
thon may be aboard a thipby thith time. Chil- 
derth took him off, ah hour and a half after we 
left latht night. The horthe danthed the Polka 
till he wath dead beat (he would have walthed 
if he hadn’t been in harneth) and then I gave 
him the word and he went to thleep comfort- 
able. Bitther thed he’d go for’ard and the 
dog hung on to hith neckhandercher with all 
four legth in the air, and pulled him down and 
rolled him over. Tho he come back into the 
drag, and there he that till I got the better of 
the acthident and turned the horthe’th head 
at half path thixth thith morning.” 

Mr. Gradgriud overwhelmed him with 
thanks, of course, and hinted as delicately as 
he could, at a handsome remuneration in mo- 
ney. 

“Well! I don’t want money mythelf, Thquire; 
but Childerth ith a family man, and if you wath 
to like to offer him a five-pound note, it mightn’t 
be unactheptable. Likewithe if you wath to 
thtand a collar for the dog, or a thet of bellth 
for the horthe, I thould be very glad to take 
’em. Brandy and water I alway th take.” H-e 


186 DICKENS’ NEW STOKIES. 


had already called for a glass, and no ^ called 
for another. “If you wouldn’t think it going 
too far, Thquire, to make a little thpread for 
the company at about three and thix ahead, 
•not reckoning Luth, it would make ’em happy.” 

All these little tokens of his gratitude, Mr. 
Gradgrind very willingly undertook to render. 
Though he thought them far too slight, he said, 
for such a service. 

“Very well, Thquire; then if you’ll only 
give a horthe-riding a bethpeak whenever you 
can, you'll more than balanthe the account. 
Now, Thquire, if your daughter will excuthe 
me, I thould like one parting word with you.” 

Louisa and Sissy withdrew into an adjoining 
room, and Mr. Sleary, stirring and drinking 
his brandy and water as he stood, went on : 

“ Thquire, you don’t need to be told that 
dogth ith wonderful animalth.” 

“Their instinct” said Mr. Gradgrind, “is sur- 
prising.” 

“ Whatever you call it — and I am bletht if 
I know what to call it,” said Sleary, it ith, no 
doubt, athonithin. The way in which a dog’ll 
find you — the distanthe he’ll cornel” 

“ His scent,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ being so 
fine.” 

“ I’m bletht if I know what to call it,” 
repeated Sleary, shaking his head. “ But I 
have had dogth find me, Thquire, in a way that 
made me think whether that dog hadn’t gone 
to another dog, and thed, ‘You don’t happen to 
know a perthon of the name of Thleary, do you? 
Perthon by the name of Thleary, in the Horthe- 
Riding way — thtout man — game eye?’ And 
whether that dog mightn’t have thed, ‘Well, I 
can’t thay I know him mythelf, but I know a 
dog that I think would be likely to be acquaint- 
ed with him.’ And whether that dog mightn’t 
have thought it over, and thed, ‘ Thleary, 
Thleary I 0 yeth, to be thure ! A friend of 
mine lived with him at one time. I can get 
you hith addreth directly.’ In consequenth of 
my being before the public, and going about 
tho muth, you thee, there mutht be a number 
of dogth acquainted with me, Thquire, that I 
don’t know 1” 

Mr. Gradgrind seemed to be quite confound- 
ed by this speculation. 

“Any way,” said Sleary, after putting his 
lips to his brandy and water, “ith fourteen 
months ago, Thquire, thinth we wath at Cheth- 
ter — and very good bithnith we wath doing. 
We wath getting up our Children in the Wood 
one morning, when there cometh into our Ring, 
by the thtS,ge door, a dog. He had travelled a 
long way, he wath in very bad condithon, he 
wath lame, and pretty well blind. He went 
round to our children, one after another, as if 
lie wath looking for a child he know’d, and 
then he come to me, and throwd himthelf up 
behind, and thtood on hith two fore-legth, 
weak ath he wath, and then he wagged hith 
tail and died. Thquire, that dog was Merry- 
legth.” 

“ Sissy’s father’s dog !” 

“ Thethilia’th father ’th old dog. Now, 


Thquire, I can take my oath, from my knowl- 
edge of that dog, that that man wath dead — 
and buried — afore that dog came back to me. 
Joth’phine and Childerth and me talked it over 
a long time, whether I thould write or not. 
But we agreed ‘No. There’th nothing com- 
fortable to tell ; why unthettle her mind, and 
make her unhappy ?’ Tho, whether her father 
detherted her, or whether he broke hith own 
heart alone, rather than pull her down along 
with him, never will be known, now, Thquire, 
till — not till we know how the dogth findth uth 
out.” 

“ She keeps the bottle that he sent her for, 
to this hour ; and she will believe in his affec- 
tion to the last moment of her life,” said Mr. 
Gradgrind. 

“ It theemth to prethent two thingth to a 
perthon, don’t it, Thquire?” said Mr. Sleary, 
musing as he looked down into the depths of 
his brandy and water: “one, that there ith a 
love in the world, not all Thelf interetht after 
all, but thomething very different ; t’other, that 
it hath a way of ith own of calculating or not 
calculating, whith thomehow or another ith 
at leatht ath hard to give a name to, ath the 
wayth of the dogth ith 1” 

Mr. Gradgrind looked out of the window, and 
made no reply. Mr. Sleary emptied his glass 
and recalled the ladies. 

“ Thethilia my dear, kith me and good bye I 
MIth Thquire, to thee you treating of her like 
a thithter, and a thithter that you trutht and 
honor with all your heart and more, ith a very 
pretty thight to me. I hope your brother may 
live to be better detherving of you, and a 
greater comfort to you. Thquire, thake handth 
firtht and latht ! Don’t be croth with uth poor 
vagabondth. People mutht be amuthed. They 
can’t be alwayth a learning, nor yet they can’t 
be alwayth a working ; they an’t made for it. 
You mutht have uth, Thquire. Do the withe 
thing and the kind thing too, and make the 
betht of uth ; not the wortht !” 

“ And I never thought before, ” said Mr. 
Sleary, putting his head in at the door again 
to say it, “ that I wath tho muth of a Cacklerl ” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. . 

It is a dangerous thing to see anything in 
the sphere of a vain blusterer, before the vain 
blusterer sees it himself. Mr. Bounderby felt 
that Mrs. Sparsit had audaciously anticipated 
him, and presumed to be wiser than he. In- 
appeasably indignant with her for her trium- 
phant discovery of Mrs. Pegler, he turned this 
presumption on the part of a woman in her 
dependent position over and over in his mind, 
until it accumulated with turning like a great 
snowball. At last he made the discovery that 
to discharge this highly connected female — to 
have it in his power to say, “ She was a woman 
of family, and wanted to stick to me, but I 
wouldn’t have it, and got rid of her,” would 
be to get the utmost possible amount of crown- 
ing glory out of the connexion, and at the 


HARD 

same time to punish Mrs. Sparslt according 
to her deserts. 

Filled tuller than ever, with this great idea, 
Mr. Bounderby came in to lunch, and sat him- 
self down in the diuing room of former days, 
where his portrait was. Mrs. Sparsit sat by 
the fire, with her foot in her cotton stirrup, 
little thinking whither she was posting. 

Since the Pegler affair, this gentlewoman had 
covered her pity for Mr. Bounderby with a veil 
of quiet melancholy and contrition. In virtue 
thereof, it had become her habit to assume a 
woful look, which woful look she now bestowed 
upon her patron. 

“What’s the matter with you, ma’am ?” said 
Mr. Bounderby in a very short, rough way. 

“Pray, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “do not 
bite my nose off.” 

“Bite your nose off, ma’am 1 ” repeated Mr. 
Bounderby. “Powr nosel” meaning, as Mrs. 
Sparsit conceived, that it was too developed a 
nose for the purpose. After which offensive 
implication he cut himself a crust of bread and 
threw the knife down with a noise. 

Mrs. Sparsit took her foot out of the stirrup, 
and said, “Mr. Bounderby, sirl’^ 

“ Well, ma’am ?” retorted Mr. Bounderby. 
“ What are you staring at ?” 

“ May I ask, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “ have 
you been ruffied this morning?” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

• “ May I inquire, sir,” pursued the injured 
woman, “ whether I am the unfortunate cause 
of yonr having lost your temper ?” 

“ Now, I’ll tell you what, ma’am,” said 
Bounderby, “ I am not come here to be bul- 
lied. A female may be highly connected, but 
she can not be permitted to bother and badger 
a man in my position, and I am not going to 
p«t up with it.” (Mr. Bounderby felt it ne- 
cessary to go on, foreseeing that if he allowed 
of details, he would be beaten.) 

Mrs. Sparsit first elevated, then knitted her 
Coriolanian eyebrows 5 gathered up her work 
into its proper basket, and rose. 

“Sir,” said she, majestically. “It is ap- 

arent to me that I am in your way at present. 

will retire to my own apartment.” 

“ Allow me to open the door, ma’am.” 

“Thank you, sir ; I can do it for myself.” 

“You had better allow me, ma’am,” said 
Bounderby, passing her, and getting his hand 
upon the lock, “because I can take the oppor- 
tunity of saying a word to you, before you go. 
Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, I rather think you are 
cramped here, do you know? It appears to me 
that under my humble roof there’s hardly 
opening enough for a lady of your genius in 
other people’s affairs.” 

Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest 
scorn, and said with great politeness, “Really, 
sir ?” 

“I have been thinking it over, you see, since 
the late affairs have happened, ma’am,” said 
Bounderby, “and it appears to my poor judg- 
ment 

“Oh I Pray, sir,” Mrs. Sparsit interposed, 


TIMES. 187 

with sprightly cheerfulness, “don’t disparage 
your judgment. Everybody knows how uner- 
ring Mr. Bounderby’s. judgment is. Everybody 
has had proofs of it. It must be the theme of 
general conversation. Disparage anything in 
yourself but your judgment, sir,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, laughing. 

Mr. Bounderby, very red and uncomfortable, 
resumed : 

“It appears to me, ma’am, I say, that a dif- 
ferent sort of establishment altogether, would 
bring out a lady of your powers. Such an es- 
tablishment as your relation. Lady S cadgers’ 
now. Don’t you think you might find some 
affairs there, ma’am, to interfere with?” 

“ It never occurred to me, before, sir,” re- 
turned Mrs. Sparsit, in a light, social stylo of 
conversation, “but now you mention it, 1 should 
think it highly probable.” 

“ Then suppose you try, ma’am,” said Boun- 
derby, laying an envelope with a cheque in it, 
in her little basket. “ You can take your own 
time, for going, ma’am, but perhaps in the 
meanwhile, it will be more agreeable to a lady 
of your powers of mind, to eat her meals by 
herself, and not to be intruded upon. I really 
ought to apologize to you — being only Josiah 
Bounderby of Coketown — for having stood in 
your light so long.” 

“ Pray don’t name it, sir,” returned Mrs. 
Sparsit. “ If that portrait could speak, sir, — 
but it has the advantage over the original of 
not possessing the power of committing itself 
and disgusting others, — it would testify that a 
long period has elapsed since I first habitually 
addressed it as the picture of a Noodle. No- 
thing that a Noodle does, can awaken surprise 
or indignation ; the proceedings of a Noodle 
can only inspire contempt.” 

Thus saying, Mrs. Sparsit, with her Roman 
features like a medal, struck to commemorate 
her scorn of Mr. Bounderby, surveyed him 
fixedly from head to foot, swept disdainfully 
past him, and ascended the staircase. Mr. 
Bounderby closed the door, and stood before 
the fire, projecting himself after his old ex- 
plosive manner into his portrait — and into 
futurity. 

Into how much of futurity? He saw Mrs. 
Sparsit fighting out a daily fight at the points 
of all the weapons in the female armory, with 
the grudging, smarting, peevish, tormenting 
Lady Scadgers, still laid up in bed with her 
mysterious leg, and gobbling her insufficient 
income down by about the middle of every 
quarter, in a mean little airless lodging, a mere 
closet for one, a mere crib for two, but did he 
see more ? Did he catch any glimpse of him- 
self making a show of Bitzer to strangers as 
the rising young man, so devoted to his mas- 
ter’s great merits, who had now young Tom’s 
place, and had almost captured young Tom 
himself, in the times when by various rascals 
he was spirited away? Did he see any faint re- 
flection of his own image making a vain-glori- 
ous will, whereby five-and-twenty self-made men 
past fifty years of age, each taking upon himself 


188 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES, 


the name, Josiab Bounderby, of Coketowu, 
should for ever dine in Bounderby Hall, for 
ever lodge in Bounderby Buildings, for ever 
attend a Bounderby chapel, for ever go to 
sleep under a Bounderby chaplain, for ever be 
supported out of a Bounderby estate, and for 
ever nauseate all healthy stomachs with a 
vast amount of Bounderby balderdash and 
bluster ? Had he any prescience of that day, 
five years to come, when Josiah Bounderby, of 
Coketown, was to die of a fit in the Coketown 
street, and this same precious will was to begin 
its long career of quibble, plunder, false pre- 
tences, meanness, little service, and much 
care? Probably not. Yet the portrait was 
to see it all out. 

Here was Mr. Gradgrind (m the same day, 
and in the same hour, sitting thoughtful in his 
own room. How much of futurity did he see ? 
Did he see himself, a white-haired, decrepid 
man, bending his hitherto inflexible theories to 
appointed circumstances; making his facts 
and figures subservient to Faith, Hope, and 
Charity — and no longer trying to grind that 
heavenly trio in his dusty little mills ? Did he 
catch sight of himself therefore much despised 
by his late political associates ? Did he see 
them, in the era of its being quite settled that 
the national dustmen have only to do with one 
another, and owe no duty to an abstraction 
called a People, “ taunting the honorable gen- 
tleman” with this and with that, and with what 
not, five nights a-week, until the small hours 
of the morning ? Probably he had so much 
foreknowledge, knowing his men. 

Here was Louisa on the night of the same 
day, watching the fire as in days of yore: 
though with a gentler and a humbler face: 
How much of the future might arise before 
her vision ? Broadsides in the streets, signed 
with her father’s name, exonerating the late 
Stephen Blackpool, weaver, from misplaced 
suspicion, and publishing the guilt of his own 
unhappy son, with such extenuation as his 
years and temptation (he could not bring him 
self to add, his education) might beseech ; 
were of the Present. So, Stephen Blackpool’s 
tombstone, with her father’s record of his 
death, was almost of the Present, for she knew 
it was to be. These things she could plainly 
see. But how much of the Future ? 

A working woman, christened Rachael, after 
a long illness, once again appearing at the 
ringing of the factory bell, and passing to and 


fro at the set hours among the Coketown hands; 
a woman of a pensive beauty, always dressed 
in black, but sweet-tempered and serene, and 
even cheerful ; a woman who, of all the people 
in the place, alone appeared to have compassion 
on a degraded, drunken wretch of her own sex, 
who was sometimes seen in the town secretly 
begging of her, and crying to her ; a woman 
working, ever working, but content to do it, 
and preferring to do it as her natural lot, un- 
til she should be too old to labor any more 1 
Did Louisa see this ? Such a thing was to be. 

A lonely brother, many thousands of miles 
away, writing on paper blotted with tears, that 
her words had soon come true, and that all the 
treasures in the world would be cheaply bar- 
tered for a sight of her dear face ? At length, 
this brother coming nearer home, with hope of 
seeing her, and being delayed by illness ; and 
then a letter in a strange hand, saying, he died 
in hospital, of fever, such a day, and died of 
penitence and love of you : his last word being 
your name ? Did Louisa see these things ? — 
Such things were to be. 

Herself again a wife — a mother — lovingly 
watchful of her children, ever careful that they 
should have a childhood of the mind no less 
than a childhood of the body, as knowing it to 
be even a more beautiful thing, and any hoard- 
ed scrap of the former a blessing and happi- 
ness to the wisest? Did Louisa see this? 
Such a thing was never to be. 

But happy Sissy’s happy children lovingher ; 
all children loving her; she, grown learned in 
childish lore; thinking no innocent and pretty 
fancy ever to be despised ; trying hard to know 
her humble fellow-creatures ; and to beautify 
their lives of machinery and reality with those 
imaginative graces and delights, without which 
the heart of infancy will wither up, the sturdi- 
est physical manhood will be morally stark 
death, and the plainest national prosperity 
figures can show will be the Writing on the 
Wall; she holding this course as partof no fan- 
tastic vow, or bond, or brotherhood, or sister- 
hood, or pledge, or covenant, or fancy dress or 
fancy fair ; but as a duty to be done — did Louisa 
see these things of herself? These things were 
to bel 

Dear reader 1 It rests with you and me 
whether, in our two fields of action, similar 
things shall be or not. Let them be.* We 
shall sit with lighter bosoms on the hearth, to 
see the ashes of our fires turn gray and cold. 


LIZZIE 


LEIGH. 


CHAPTER I. 

When Death is present in a household on 
a Christmas Day, the very contrast between 
the time as it now is, and the day as it has 
often been, gives a poignancy to sorrow, — a 
more utter blankness to the desolation. 
James Leigh died just as the far away bells 
of Rochdale Church were ringing for morn- 
ing service on Christmas Day, 1836. A few 
minutes before his death, he opened his 
already glazing eyes, and made a sign to 
his wife, by the faint motion of his lips, 
that he had yet something to say. She 
stooped close down, and caught the broken 
whisper, “ I forgive her, Anne I May God 
forgive me.^^ 

“ Oh my love, my dear I only get well, 
and I will never cease showing my thanks 
for those words. May God in heaven bless 
thee for saying them. Thou^rt not so rest- 
less, my lad I may be — Oh God I” 

For even while she spoke, he died. 

They had been two-and-twenty years man 
and wife ; for nineteen of those years their 
life had been as calm and happy, as the 
most perfect uprightness on the one side, 
and the most complete confidence and loving 
submission on the other, could make it. 
Milton’s fiimous line might have been framed 
and hung up as the rule of their married 
life, for he was truly the interpreter, who 
stood between God and her ; she would have 
considered herself wicked if she had ever 
dared even to think him austere, though as 
certainly as he was an upright man, so 
surely was he hard, stern, and inflexible. 
But for three years the moan and the mur- 
mur had never been out of her heart, she 
had rebelled against her husband as against 
a tyrant, with a hidden sullen rebellion, 
which tore up the old land-marks of wifely 
duty and affection, and poisoned the foun- 
tains whence gentlest love and reverence 
had once been for ever springing. 

But those last blessed words replaced him 
on his throne in her heart, and called out 
penitent anguish for all the bitter estrange- 
ment of later years. It was this which made 


her refuse all the entreaties of her sons, that 
she would see the kind-hearted neighbors, 
who called on their way from church, to 
sympathise and condole. No I she would 
stay with the dead husband that had spoken 
tenderly at last, if for three years he had 
kept silence ; who knew but what, if she had 
only been more gentle and less angrily re- 
served he might have relented earlier — and 
in time I 

^ She sat rocking herself to and fro by the 
side of the bed, while the footsteps below 
went in and out; she had been in sorrow 
too long to have any violent burst of deep 
grief now ; the furrows were well worn in 
her cheeks, and the tears flowed quietly, if 
incessantly, all the day long. But when the 
winter's night drew on, and the neighbors 
had gone away to their homes, she stole to 
the window, and gazed out, long and wist- 
fully, over the dark gray moors. She did 
not hear her son's voice, as he spoke to 
her from the door, nor his footstep as he 
drew nearer. She started when he touched 
her. 

“ Mother ! come down to us. There's no 
one but Will and me. Dearest mother, we 
do so want you." The poor lad's voice 
trembled, and he began to cry. It appeared 
to require an effort on Mrs. Leigh's part to 
tear herself away from the window, but with 
a sigh she complied with his request. 

The two boys (for though Will was nearly 
twenty-one, she still thought of him as a lad) 
had done everything in their power to make 
the house-place comfortable for her. She 
herself, in the old days before her sorrow, 
had never made a brighter fire or a cleaner 
hearth, ready for her husband’s return home, 
than now awaited her. The tea-things were 
all put out, and the kettle was boiling ; and 
the boys had calmed their grief down into a 
kind of sober cheerfulness. They paid her 
every attention they could think o^ but re- 
ceived little notice on her part ; she did not 
resist — she rather submitted to all their 
arrangements ; but they did not seem to 
touch her heart. 

When tea was ended, — it was merely the 

( 189 ) 


190 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


form of tea that had been gone through, — 
AVill moved the things away to the dresser. 
His mother leant back languidly in her 
chair. 

“ Mother, shall Tom read you a chapter ? 
He’s a better scholar than I.” 

“Aye, lad!” said she, almost eagerly. 
“ That’s it. Read me the Prodigal Son. 
Aye, aye, lad. Thank thee.” 

Tom found the chapter, and read it in the 
high-pitched voice which is customary in 
village schools. His mother bent forward, 
her lips parted, her eyes dilated ; her whole 
body instinct with eager attention. Will 
sat with his head depressed and hung down. 
He knew why that chapter had been chosen, 
and to him it recalled the family’s disgrace. 
When the reading was ended, he still hung 
down his head in gloomy silence. But her 
face was brighter than it had been before 
for the day. Her eyes looked dreamy, as if 
she saw a vision ; and by and by she. pulled 
the Bible towards her, and putting her finger 
underneath each word, began to read them 
aloud \n a low voice to herself ; she read 
again the words of bitter sorrow and deep 
humiliation ; but most of all she paused and 
brightened over the father’s tender reception 
of the repentant prodigal. 

So passed the Christmas evening in the 
Upclose Farm. 

The snow had fallen heavily over the dark 
waving moorland, before the day of the fune- 
ral. The black, storm-laden dome of heaven 
lay very still and close upon the white earth, 
as they carried the body forth out of the house 
which had known his presence so long as 
its ruling power. Two and two the mourners 
followed, making a black procession, in their 
winding march over the unbeaten snow, to 
Milne-Row Church — now lost in some hol- 
low of the bleak moors, now slowly climbing 
the heaving ascents. There was no long 
tarrying after the funeral, for many of the 
neighbors who accompanied the body to the 
grave had far to go, and the great white 
flakes which came slowly down, were the 
boding fore-runners of a heavy storm. One 
old friend alone accompanied the widow and 
her sons to their home. 

The Upclose Farm had belonged for gen- 
erations to the Leighs ; and yet its posses- 
sion hardly raised them above the rank of 
laborers. There was the house and out- 
buildings, all of an old-fashioned kind, and 
about seven acres of barren unproductive 
land, which they had never possessed capital 
enough to improve ; indeed they could hardly 
rely upon it for subsistence ; and it had 
been customary to bring up the sons to 
some trade — such as a wheelwright’s or 
blacksmith’s. 

James Leigh had left a will, in the pos- 
session of the old man who accompanied 
them home. He read it aloud. James had 
bequeathed the farm to his faithful wife, 


Anne Leigh, for her life-time ; and after- 
wards, to his son William. The hundred 
and odd pounds in the savings’ bank was to 
accumulate for Thomas. 

After the reading was ended, Anne Leigh 
sat silent for a time ; and then she asked 
to speak to Samuel Orme alone. The sons 
went into the back kitchen, and thence 
strolled out into the fields, regardless of the 
driving snow. The brothers were dearly 
fond of each other, although they were very 
different in character. Will, the elder, was 
like his father, stern, reserved, and scrupu- 
lously upright. Tom (who was ten years 
younger) was gentle and delicate as a girl, 
both in appearance and character. He had 
always clung to his mother, and dreaded his 
father. They did not speak as they walked, 
for they were only in the habit of talking' 
about facts, and hardly knew the more 
sophisticated language applied to the de- 
scription of feelings. 

Meanwhile their mother had taken hold of 
Samuel Orme’s arm with her trembling hand. 

“ Samuel, I must let the farm — I must.” 

“Let the farm! What’s come o’er the 
woman ?” 

“ Oh, Samuel !” said she, her eyes swim- 
ming in tears, “ I’m just fain to go and live 
in Manchester. I mun let the farm.” 

Samuel looked, and pondered, but did not 
speak for some time. At last he said — 

“ If thou hast made up thy mind, there’s 
no speaking again it ; and thou must e’en 
go. Thou’lt be sadly pottered wi’ Man- 
chester ways ; but that’s not my look out. 
Why, thou’lt have to buy potatoes, a thing 
thou hast never done afore in all thy born 
life. Well ! it’s not my look out. Its rather 
for me than again me. Our Jenny is going 
to be married to Tom Higginbotham, and 
he was speaking of wanting a bit of land 
to begin upon. His father will be dying 
sometime, I reckon, and then he’ll step into 
the Croft Farm. But meanwhile — ” 

“ Then thou’lt let the farm,” said she, still 
as eagerly as ever. 

“ Aye, aye, he’ll take it fast enough, I’ve 
a notion. But I’ll not drive a bargain with 
thee just now ; it would not be right ; we’ll 
wait a bit.” 

“ No ; I cannot wait, settle it out at once.” 

“ AVell, well ; I’ll speak to Will about it. 
I see him out yonder. I’ll step to him, and 
talk it over.” 

Accordingly he went and joined the two 
lads, and without more ado, began the sub- 
ject to them. 

“ Will, thy mother is fain to go live in 
Manchester, and covets to let the farm. 
Now, I’m willing to take it for Tom Higgin- 
botham ; but I like to drive a keen bargain, 
and there would be no fun chaffering with 
thy mother just now. Let thee and me 
buckle to, my lad ! and try and cheat each 
other ; it will warm us this cold day.” 


LIZZIE LEIGH. 


191 


“ Lpt the farm !” said both the lads at once, 
with infinite surprise. “ Go live in Man- 
chester I” 

When Samuel Orme found that the plan 
had never before been named to either AVill 
or Tom, he would have nothing to do with 
it, he said, until they had spoken to their 
mother ; likely she was “ dazed^^ by her 
husband's death ; he would wait a day or 
tw'o, and not name it to any one ; not to Tom 
Higginbotham himself, or maybe he would 
set his heart upon it. The lads had better 
go in and talk it over with their mother. 
He bade them good day and left them. 

AVill looked very gloomy, but he did not 
speak till they got near the house. Then 
he said — 

“ Tom, go to th' shippon, and supper the 
cows. I want to speak to mother alone." 

When he entered the house-place, she was 
sitting before the fire, looking into its em- 
bers. She did-not hear him come in ; for 
some time she had lost her quick perception 
of outward things. 

“ Mother ! what’s this about going to 
Manchester ?" asked he. 

“ Oh, lad !" said she, turning round, and 
speaking in a beseeching tone, “ I must go 
and seek our Lizzie. I cannot rest here for 
thinking on her. Many's the time I have 
left thy father sleeping in bed, and stole to 
th' w'indow, and looked and looked my 
heart out towards Manchester, till I thought 
I must just set out and tramp over moor and 
moss straight away till I got there, and then 
lift up every down-cast face till I came to 
our Lizzie. And often, when the south wind 
was blowing soft among the hollows, I've 
fincied (it could but be fancy, thou knowest) 
I heard her crying upon me ; and I've 
thought the voice came closer and closer, 
till at last it was sobbing out ‘Mother’ 
close to the door ; and I've stolen down, and 
undone the latch before now, and looked out 
into the still black night, thinking to see her, 
— and turned sick and sorrowful when I 
heard no living sound but the sough of the 
wind dying away. Oh ! speak not to me of 
stopping here, when she may be perishing 
for hunger, like the poor lad in the parable ! 
And now she lifted up her voice and wept 
aloud. 

Will was deeply grieved. He had been 
old enough to be told the family shame 
when, more than two years before, his fa- 
ther had had his letter to his daughter re- 
turned by her mistress in Manchester, tell- 
ing him that Lizzie had left her service some 
time — ^and why. He had sympathised with 
his father's stern anger; though he had 
thought him something hard, it is true, 
when he had forbidden his weeping, heart- 
broken wife to go and try to find her poor 
sinning child, and declared that henceforth 
they would have no daughter ; that she i 
should be as one dead, and her name never | 


more be named at market or at meal time, 
in blessing or in prayer. He had held his 
peace, with compressed lips and contracted 
brow, when the neighbors had noticed to 
him how poor Lizzie's death had aged 
both his father and his mother; and how. 
they thought the bereaved couple would 
never hold up their heads again. He him- 
self had felt as if that one event had made 
him old before his time ; and had envied Tom 
the tears he had shed over poor, pretty, 
innocent, dead Lizzie. He thought about 
her sometimes, till he ground his teeth 
together, and could have struck her down 
in her shame. His mother had never named 
her to him until now. 

“ Mother!" said he, at last. “ She may 
be dead. Most likely she is." 

“ No, Will ; she is not dead," said Mrs. 
Leigh. “ God will not let her die till I'v^ 
seen her once again. Thou dost not know 
how I've prayed and prayed just once again 
to see her sweet face, and tell her I've for< 
given her though she's broken my heart 
— she has, Will." She could not go on fot 
a minute or two for the choking sobs. “ Thon. 
dost not know that, or thou wouldst not say 
she could be dead, — for God is very merci- 
ful, Will ; He is, — He is much more pitiful 
than man, — I could never ha’ spoken to thy 
father as I did to Him, — and yet thy father 
forgave her at last. The last words he said 
were that he forgave her. Thou’lt not be 
harder than thy father, Will? Do not try and 
hinder me going to seek her, for it’s no use." 

Will sat very still for a long while before 
he spoke. At last he said, “ I’ll not hinder 
you. I think she’s dead, but that’s no 
matter." 

“ She is not dead," said his mother, with 
low earnestness. Will took no notice of the 
interruption. 

“We will all go to Manchester for a 
twelvemonth, and let the fiirm to Tom Hig- 
ginbotham. I’ll get blacksmith’s work ; and 
Tom can have good schooling for awhile, 
which he's always craving for. At the end 
of the year you’ll come back, mother, and 
give over fretting for Lizzie, and think with 
me that she is dead, — and to my mind, that 
would be more comfort than to think of her 
living ;" he dropped his voice as he spoke 
these last words. She shook her head, but 
made no answer. He asked again — 

“ Will you, mother, agree to this?" 

“ I’ll agree to it a-this-ns," said she. “ If 
I hear and see nought of her for a twelve- 
month, me being in Manchester looking out, 
I’ll just ha' broken my heart fairly before 
the year’s ended, and then I shall know 
neither love nor sorrow for her any more, 
when I'm at rest in the grave — I’ll agree to 
that, Will." 

“ Well, I suppose it must be so. I shall 
not tell Tom, mother, why we're flitting to 
Manchester. Best spare him." 


192 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


“ As thou wilt,” said she, sadly, “ so that 
we go, that’s all.’” 

Before the wild daffodils were in flower 
in the sheltered copses round Upclose Farm, 
the Leighs were settled in their Manchester 
home ; if they could ever grow to consider 
that place as a home, where there was no 
ga.rden, or outbuilding, no fresh breezy out- 
let, no far-stretching view, over moor and 
hollow, — no dumb animals to be tended, 
and, what more than all they missed, no 
old haunting memories, even though those 
remembrances told of sorrow, and the dead 
and gone. 

Mrs. Leigh heeded the loss of all these 
things less than her sons. She had more 
spirit in her countenance than she had had for 
months, because now she had hope ; of a sad 
enough kind, to be sure, but still it was hope. 
She performed all her household duties, 
strange and complicated as they were, and be- 
wildered as she was with all the town-neces- 
sities of her new manner of life ; but when 
her house was “ sided,” and the boys came 
home from their work, in the evening, she 
would put on her things and steal out, un- 
noticed, as she thought, but not without 
many a heavy sigh from Will, after she had 
closed the house-door and departed. It was 
often past midnight before she came back, 
pale and weary, with almost a guilty look 
upon her face ; but that face so full of dis- 
appointment and hope-deferred, that Will 
had never the heart to say what he thought 
of the folly and hopelessness of the search. 
Night after night it was renewed, till days 
grew to weeks, and weeks to months. All 
this time Will did his duty towards her as 
well as he could, without having sympathy 
with her. He staid at home in the even- 
ings for Tom’s sake, and often wished he 
had Tom’s pleasure in reading, for the 
time hung heavy on his hands, as he sat up 
for his mother. 

I need not tell you how the mother spent 
the weary hours. And yet I will tell you 
something. She used to wander out, at 
first as if without a purpose, till she rallied 
her thoughts, and brought all her energies 
to bear on the one point ; then she went 
with earnest patience along the least known 
ways to some new part of the town, looking 
wistfully with dumb entreaty into people’s 
faces ; sometimes catching a glimpse of a 
figure which had a kind of momentary like- 
ness to her child’s, and following that figure 
with never wearying perseverance till some 
light from shop or lamp showed the cold 
strange face which was not her daughter’s. 
Once or twice a kind-hearted passer-by, 
struck by her look of yearning woe, turned 
back and offered help, or asked her what 
she wanted. When so spoken to, she an- 
swered only, ‘ You don’t know a poor girl 
they call Lizzie Leigh, do you ?’ and when 
they denied all knowledge, she shook her 


head, and went on again. I think they be- 
lieved her to be crazy. But she never spoke 
first to any one. She sometimes took a few 
minutes’ rest on the doorsteps, and some- 
times (very seldom) covered her face and 
cried ; but she could not afford to lose time 
and chances in this way ; while her eyes 
were blinded with tears, the lost one might 
pass by unseen. 

One evening, in the rich time of shortening 
autumn-days. Will saw an old man, who 
without being absolutely drunk, could not 
guide himself rightly along the foot-path, 
and was mocked for his unsteadiness of gait 
by the idle boys of the neighborhood. Fot 
his father’s sake Will regarded old age with 
tenderness, even when most degraded and 
removed from the stern virtues which digni- 
fied that father ; so he took the old man 
home, and seemed to believe his often re- 
peated assertions that he drank nothing but 
water. The stranger tried to stiffen himself 
up into steadiness as he drew nearer home, 
as if there were some one there, for whose 
respect he cared even in his half-intoxicated 
state, or whose feelings he feared to grieve. 
His home was exquisitely clean and neat 
even in outside appearance ; threshold, win- 
dow, and window-sill, were outward signs 
of some spirit of purity within. Will was 
rewarded for his attention by a bright glance 
of thanks, succeeded by a blush of shame, 
from a young woman of twenty or there- 
abouts. She did not speak, or second her 
father’s hospitable invitations to him to be 
seated. She seemed unwilling that a stran- 
ger should witness her father’s attempts at 
stately sobriety, and Will could not bear to 
stay and see her distress. But when the old 
man, with many a flabby shake of the hand, 
kept asking him to come again some other 
evening and see them. Will sought her down- 
cast eyes, and, though he could not read 
their veiled meaning, he answered timidly, 
“ If its agreeable to everybody. I’ll come — 
and thank ye.” But there was no answer 
from the girl to whom this speech was in 
reality addressed ; and Will left the house 
liking her all the better for never speaking. 

He thought about her a great deal for the 
next day or two; he scolded himself for 
being so foolish as to think of her, and then 
fell to with fresh vigor, and thought of her 
more than ever. He tried to depreciate 
her ; he told himself she was not pretty, and 
then made indignant answer that he liked 
her looks much better than any beauty of 
them all. He wished he was not so country 
looking, so red-faced, so broad-shouldered ; 
while she was like a lady, with her smooth 
colorless complexion, her bright dark hair 
and her spotless dress. Pretty, or not pretty, 
she drew his footsteps towards her ; he could 
not resist the impulse that made him wish 
to see her once more, and find out some fault 
which should unloose his heart from her 


LIZZIE LEIGH. 


unconscious keeping. But there she was, 
pure and maidenly as before. He sat and 
looked, answering her father at cross pur- 
poses, while she drew more and more into 
the shadow of the chimney-corner out of 
sight. Then the spirit that possessed him 
(it was not he himself, sure, that did so im- 
pudent a thing !) made him get up and carry 
the candle to a different place, under the 
pretence of giving her more light at her 
sewing, but in reality, to be able to see her 
better ; she could not stand this much longer, 
but jumped up, and said she must put her 
little niece to bed ; and surely, there never 
was, before or since, so troublesome a child 
of two years old ; for, though Will staid an 
hour and a half longer, she never came 
down again. He won the father's heart, 
though, by his capacity as a listener, for 
some people are not at all particular, and, 
so that they themselves may talk on undis- 
turbed, are not so unreasonable as to expect 
attention to what they say. 

Will did gather this much, however, from 
the old man's talk. He had once been quite 
in a genteel line of business, but had failed 
for more money than any greengrocer he 
had heard of ; at least, any who did not mix 
up fish and game with greengrocery proper. 
This grand failure seemed to have been the 
event of his life, and one on which he dwelt 
with a strange kind of pride. It appeared 
as if at present he rested from his past ex- 
ertions (in the bankrupt line), and depended 
on his daughter, who kept a small school 
for very young children. But all these par- 
ticulars Will only remembered and under- 
stood, when he had left the house ; at the 
time he heard them, he was thinking of 
Susan. After he had made good his footing 
at Mr. Palmer's he was not long, you may 
be sure, without finding some reason for re- 
turning again and again. He listened to 
her father, he talked to the little niece, but 
he looked at Susan, both while he listened 
and while he talked. Her father kept on 
insisting on his former gentility, the details 
of which would have appeared very ques- 
tionable to Will's mind, if the sweet, delicate, 
modest Susan had not thrown an inexplica- 
ble air of refinement over all she came near. 
She never spoke much ; she was generally 
diligently at work ; but when she moved it 
was so noiselessly, and when she did speak, 
it was in so low and soft a voice, that silence, 
speech, motion and stillness, alike seemed 
to remove her high above Will's reach into 
some saintly and inaccessible air of glory — 
high above his reach, even as she knew him ! 
And, if she were made acquainted with the 
dark secret behind, of his sister's shame, 
which was kept ever present to his mind by 
his mother's nightly search among the out- 
cast and forsaken, would not Susan shrink 
away from him with loathing, as if he were 
tainted by the involuntary relationship? 

13 


193 

This was his "dread; and thereupon followed 
a resolution that he would withdraw from 
her sweet company before it was to late. 
So he resisted internal temptation, and staid 
at home, and suffered and sighed. He be- 
came angry with his mother for her untiring 
patience in seeking for one who, he could 
not help hoping, was dead rather than alive, 
lie spoke sharply to her, and received only 
such sad deprecatory answers as made him 
reproach himself, and still more lose sight 
of peace of mind. This struggle could not 
last long without affecting his health ; and 
Tom, his sole companion through the long 
evenings, noticed his increasing languor, his 
restless irritability, with perplexed anxiety, 
and at last resolved to call his mother's at- 
tention to his brother's haggard, care-worn 
looks. She listened with a startled recollec- 
tion of Will's claims upon her love. She 
noticed his decreasing appetite, and half- 
checked sighs. 

“ Will, lad ! what’s come o'er thee ?" said 
she to him, as he sat listlessly gazing into 
the fire. 

“ There's nought the matter with me," 
said he, as if annoyed at her remark. 

“ Nay, lad, but there is." He did not 
speak again to contradict her ; indeed she 
did not know if he had heard her, so un- 
moved did he look. 

“Would'st like to go back to Upclose 
Farm ?" asked she, sorrowfully. 

“ It's just blackberrying time," said Tom. 

Will shook his head. She looked at him 
awhile, as if trying to read that expression 
of despondency and trace it back to its 
source. 

“ Will and Tom could go," said she ; “ I 
must stay here till I've found her, thou 
know'st," continued she, dropping her voice. 

He turned quickly round, and with the 
authority he at all times exercised over Tom, 
bade him begone to bed. 

When Tom had left the room, he prepared 
to speak. 


CHAPTER II. 

“Mother," then said Will, “why will' 
you keep on thinking she's alive? If she 
were but dead, we need never name her 
name again. We've never heard nought on 
her since father wrote her that letter ; we 
never knew whether she got it or not. She'd 
left her place before then. Many a one dies 
is " 

“Oh my lad ! dunnot speak so to me, or my 
heart will break outright," said his mother, 
with a sort of cry. Then she calmed herself, 
for she yearned to persuade him to her own 
belief. “ Thou never asked, and thou'rt too 
I like thy father for me to tell without asking 
I — but it were all to be near Lizzie’s old place 


194 DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 


that I settled down on this side o' Man- 
chester ; and the very day after we came, 
I went to her old missus, and asked to speak 
a word wi' her. I had a strong mind to 
cast it up to her, that she should ha' sent my 
poor lass away without telling on it to us 
first ; but she were in black, and looked so 
sad I could na' find in my heart to threep it 
up. But I did ask her a bit about our Liz- 
zie. The master would have her turned 
away at a day's warning, (he's gone to 
t’other place ; I hope he'll meet wi' more 
mercy there than he showed our Lizzie, — I 
do, — ) and when the missus asked her should 
she write to us, she says Lizzie shook her 
head ; and when she speered at her again, 
the poor lass went down on her knees, and 
begged her not, for she said it would iDreak 
my heart (as it has done. Will — God knows 
it has)," and the poor mother, choking with 
her struggle to keep down her hard over- 
mastering grief, “ and her father would 
curse her — Oh, God, teach me to be patient." 
She could not speak for a few minutes, — 
“ and the lass threatened, and said she'd go 
drown herself in the canal, if the missus 
wrote home — and so — 

“Well ! I'd got a trace of my child, — the 
missus thought she'd gone to the workhouse 
to be nursed ; and there I went — and there, 
sure enough, she had been, — and they'd 
turned her out as soon as she was strong, and 
told her she were young enough to work, — 
but whatten kind o' work would be open to 
her, lad, and her baby to keep ?" 

Will listened to his mother's tale with 
deep sympathy, not unmixed with the old 
bitter shame. But the opening of her heart 
had unlocked his, and after a while he 
spoke. 

“ Mother ! I think I'd e'en better go home. 
Tom can stay wi' thee. I know I should 
stay too, but I cannot stay in peace so near 
— her — without craving to see her — Susan 
Palmer I mean." 

“ Has the old Mr. Palmer thou tolled me 
on a daughter ?" asked Mrs. Leigh. 

“ Aye, he has. And I love her above a 
bit. And it's because I love her I want to 
leave Manchester. That's all." 

Mrs. Leigh tried to understand this speech 
for some time, but found it difBlcult of inter- 
pretation. 

“Why should'st thou not tell her thou 
lov’st her ? Thou'rt a likely lad, and sure 
o’ work. Thou’lt have Upclose at my death ; 
and as for that I could let thee have it now, 
and keep myself by doing a bit of charring. 
It seems to me a very backward sort o' way 
of winning her to think of leaving Man- 
chester." 

“ Oh, mother, she's so gentle and so good, 
— she's downright holy. She's never known 
a touch of sin ; and can I ask her to marry 
me, knowing what we do about Lizzie, and 
fearing worse ! I doubt if one like her could 


ever care for me ; but if she knew about my 
sister, it would put a gulf between us, and 
she'd shudder up at the thought of crossing 
it. You don't know how good she is, 
mother !" 

“ AYill, Will I if she's so good as thou 
say'st, she'll have pity on such as my Lizzie. 
If she has no pity for such, she's a cruel 
Pharisee, and thou'rt best without her." 

But he only shook his head, and sighed ; 
and for the time the conversation dropped. 

But a new idea sprang up in Mrs. Leigh's 
head. She thought that she would go and 
see Susan Palmer, and speak up for Will, 
and tell her the truth about Lizzie ; and ac- 
cording to her pity for the poor sinner, 
would she be worthy or unworthy of him. 
She resolved to go the very next afternoon, 
but without telling any one of her plan. 
Accordingly she looked out the Sunday 
clothes she had never before had the heart 
to unpack since she came to Manchester, 
but which she now desired to appear in, in 
order to do credit to Will. She put on her 
old-fashioned black mode bonnet, trimmed 
with real lace ; her scarlet cloth cloak, 
which she had had ever since she was mar- 
ried ; and always spotlessly clean, she set 
forth on her unauthorized embassy. She 
knew the Palmers lived in Crown Street, 
though where she had heard it she could not 
tell; and modestly asking her way, she 
arrived in the street about a quarter to four 
o'clock. She stopped to inquire the exact 
number, and the woman whom she ad- 
dressed told her that Susan Palmer's school 
would not be loosed till four, and asked 
her to stop in and wait until then at her 
house. 

“ For," said she, smiling, “ them that 
wants Susan Palmer wants a kind friend of 
ours; so we, in a manner, call cousins. Sit 
down, missus, sit down. I'll wipe the chair, 
so that it shanna dirty your cloak. My 
mother used to wear them bright cloaks, 
and they're right gradely things again a 
green field. 

“ Han ye known Susan Palmer long ?" 
asked Mrs. Leigh, pleased with the admira- 
tion of her cloak. 

“Ever since they corned to live in our 
street. Our Sally goes to her school." 

“ Whatten sort of a lass is she, for I ha' 
never seen her ?” 

“Well, — as for looks, I cannot say. It's 
so long since I first knowed her, that I've 
clean forgotten what I thought of her then. 
My master says he never saw such a smile 
for gladdening the heart. But may be it's 
not looks you're asking about. The best 
thing I can say of her looks is, that she's 
just one a stranger would stop in the street 
to ask help from if he needed it. All the 
little childer creeps as close as they can to 
her ; she'll have as many as three or four 
hanging to her apron all at once.” 


LIZZIE LEIGH. 


195 


“ Is she cochet at all V* 

“ Cocket, bless you ! you never saw a 
creature less set up in all your life. Her 
father’s cocket enough. No ! she’s not cocket 
any way. You’ve not heard much of Susan 
Palmer, I reckon, if you think she’s cocket. 
She’s just one to come quietly in, and do 
the very thing most wanted ; little things, 
maybe, that any one could do, but that few 
would think on, for another. She’ll bring her 
thimble wi’ her, and mend up after the 
childer o’ nights, — and she writes all Betty 
Harker’s letters to her grandchild out at 
service, — and she’s in nobody’s way, and 
that’s a great matter, I take it. Here’s the 
childer running past ! School is loosed. 
You’ll find her now, missus, ready to hear 
and to help. But we none on us frab her 
by going near her in school-time.” 

Poor Mrs. Leigh’s heart began to beat, 
and she could almost have turned round and 
gone home again. Her country breeding 
had made her shy of strangers, and this 
Susan Palmer appeared to her like a real 
born lady by all accounts. So she knocked 
with a timid feeling at. the indicated door, 
and when it was opened, dropped a simple 
curtsey without speaking. Susan had her 
little niece in her arms, curled up with fond 
endearment against her breast, but she put 
her gently down to the ground; and instantly 
placed a chair in the best corner of the room 
for Mrs. Leigh, when she told her who she 
was. “ It’s not Will as has asked me to 
come,” said the mother, apologetically; “ I’d 
a wish just to speak to you myself!” 

Susan colored up to her temples, and 
stooped to pick up the little toddling girl. 
In a minute or two Mrs. Leigh began again. 

“ Will thinks you would na respect us if 
you knew all ; but I think you could na help 
feeling for us in the sorrow God has put 
upon us ; so I just put on my bonnet, and 
came off unknownst to the lads. Every one 
says you’re very good, and that the Lord 
has keeped you from falling from his ways ; 
but maybe you’ve never yet been tried and 
tempted as some is. I’m perhaps speaking 
too plain, but my heart’s welly broken, and 
I can’t be choice in my words as them who 
are happy can. Well now 1 I’ll tell you the 
truth. Will dreads you to hear it, but I’ll 
just tell it you. You mun know,” — but 
here the poor woman’s words failed her, and 
she could do nothing but sit rocking herself 
backwards and forwards, with sad eyes, 
straight-gazing into Susan’s face, as if they 
tried to tell the tale of agony which the 
quivering lips refused to utter. Those 
wretched stony eyes forced the tears down 
Susan’s cheeks, and, as if this sympathy 
gave the mother strength, she went on in a 
low voice, “I had a daughter once, my 
heart’s darling. Her father thought I made 
too much on her, and that she’d grow 
marred staying at home; so he said she 


mun go among strangers, and learn to rough 
it. She were young, and liked the thought 
of seeing a bit of the world ; and her father 
heard on a place in Manchester. Well ! I’ll 
not weary you. That poor girl were led 
astray ; and first thing we heard on it, was 
when a letter of her father’s was sent back 
by her missus, saying, she’d left her place, 
or, to speak right, the master had turned 
her into the street soon as he had heard of 
her condition — and she not seventeen I” 

She now cried aloud ; and Susan wept 
too. The little child looked up into their 
faces, and, catching their sorrow, began to 
whimper and wail. Susan took it softly up, 
and hiding her face in its little neck, tried 
to restrain her tears, and think of comfort 
for the mother. At last she said ; — 

“Where is she now?” 

“ Lass ! I dunnot know,” said Mrs. Leigh, 
checking her sobs to communicate this ad- 
dition to her distress. “Mrs. Lomax tolled 
me she went” 

“Mrs. Lomax — what Mrs. Lomax?” 

“ Her as lives in Brabazon-street. She 
telled me my poor wench went to the work- 
house fra there. I’ll not speak again the 
dead ; but if her father would but ha’ letten 
me, — but he were one who had no notion — 
no. I’ll not say that ; best say nought. He 
forgave her on his death-bed. I dare say I 
did na go th’ right way to work.” 

“ Will you hold the child for me one in- 
stant?” said Susan. 

“ Ay, if it will come to me. Childer used 
to be fond on me till I got the sad look on 
my face that scares them, I think.” 

But the little girl clung to Susan ; so she 
carried it up stairs with her. Mrs. Leigh 
sat by herself — how long she did not know. 

Susan came dow'n with a bundle of far- 
worn baby-clothes. 

“You must listen to me a bit, and not 
think too much about what I’m going to tell 
you. Nanny is not my niece, nor any kin 
to me that I know of. I used to go out 
working by the day. One night, as I came 
home, I thought some woman was following 
me ; I turned to look. The woman, before 
I could see her face (for she turned it to one 
side), offered me something. I held out my 
arms by instinct ; she dropped a bundle into 
them with a bursting sob that went straight 
to my heart. It was a baby. I looked 
round again; but the woman was gone. 
She had run away as quick as lightning. 
There was a little packet of clothes — very 
few — and as if they were made out of its 
mother’s gowns, for they were large patterns 
to buy for a baby. I was always fond of 
babies ; and I had not my wits about me, 
father says ; for it was very cold, and when 
I’d seen as well as I could (for it was past 
ten) that there was no one in the street, I 
brought it in and warmed it. Father was 
very angry when he came, and said he’d 


196 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


take it to the workhouse the next morning, 
and flyted me sadly about it. But when 
morning came I could not bear to part with 
it ; it had slept in my arms all night ; and 
I’ve heard what workhouse bringing up is. 
So I told father I’d give up going out work- 
ing, and stay at home and keep school, if I 
might only keep the baby ; and after awhile, 
he said if I earned enough for him to have 
his comforts, he’d let me ; but he’s never 
taken to her. Now, don’t tremble so — I’ve 
but a little more to tell — and maybe I’m 
wrong in telling it; but I used to work next 
door to Mrs. Lomax’s, in Brabazon-street, 
and the servants were all thick together; 
and I heard about Bessy (they called her) 
being sent away. I don’t know that ever I 
saw ; but the time would be about fitting 
to this child’s age, and I’ve sometimes fan- 
cied it was her’s. And now, will you look 
at the little clothes that came with her — 
bless her !” 

But Mrs. Leigh had fainted. The strange 
joy and shame, and gushing love for the 
little child had overpowered her ; it was 
some time before Susan could bring her 
round. Then she was all trembling, sick 
with impatience to look at the little frocks. 
Among them was a slip of paper which Su- 
san had forgotten to name, that had been 
pinned to the bundle. On it was scrawled 
in a round stifiF hand, 

“ Call her Anne. She does not cry much, 
and takes a deal of notice. God bless you 
and forgive me.” 

The writing was no clue at all ; the name 
“Anne,” common though it was, seemed 
something to build upon. But Mrs. Leigh 
recognized one of the frocks instantly, as 
being made out of part of a gown that she 
and her daughter had bought together in 
Rochdale. 

She stood up, and stretched out her hands 
in the attitude of blessing over Susan’s bent 
head. 

“God bless you, and show you His mercy 
in your need, as you have shown it to this 
little child.” 

She took the little creature in her arms, 
and smoothed away her sad looks into a 
smile, and kissed it fondly, saying over and 
over again, “Nanny, Nanny, my little Nan- 
ny.” At last the child was soothed, and 
looked in her face and smiled back again. 

“It has her eyes,” said she to Susan. 

“ I never saw her to the best of my know- 
ledge. I think it must be her’s by the frock. 
But where can she be ?” 

“ God knows,” said Mrs. Leigh ; “ I dare 
not think she’s dead. I’m sure she isn’t.” 

“ No I she’s not dead. Every now and 
then a little packet is thrust in under our 
door, with may-be two half-crowns in it ; 
once it was half-a-sovereign. Altogether 
I’ve got seven-and-thirty shillings wrapped 
up for Nanny. I never touch it, but I’ve 


often thought the poor mother feels near to 
God when she brings this money. Father 
wanted to set the policeman to watch, but I 
said No, for I was afraid if she was watched 
she might not come, and it seemed such a 
holy thing to be checking her in, I could 
not find in my heart to do it.” 

“ Oh, if we could but find her ! I’d take 
her in my arms, and we’d just lie down and 
die together.” 

“Nay, don’t speak so I” said Susan gently, 
“for all that’s come and gone, she may 
turn right at last. Mary Magdalen did, you 
know.” 

“ Eh ! but I were nearer right about thee 
than Will. He thought you would never 
look on him again if you knew about Lizzie. 
But thou’rt not a Pharisee.” 

“I’m sorry he thought I could be so 
hard,” said Susan in a low voice, and color- 
ing up. Then Mrs. Leigh was alarmed, and 
in her motherly anxiety, she began to fear 
lest she had injured Will in Susan’s estima- 
tion. 

“You see Will thinks so much of you — 
gold would not be good enough for you to 
walk on, in his eye. He said you’d never 
look at him as he was, let alone his being 
brother to my poor wench. He loves you 
so, it makes him think meanly on every- 
thing belonging to himself, as not fit to come 
near ye, — but he’s a good lad, and a good 
son — thou’lt be a happy woman if thou’lt 
have him, — so don’t let my words go against 
him ; don’t.” 

But Susan hung her head and made no 
answer. She had not known until now, 
that Will thought so earnestly and seriously 
about her ; and even now she felt afraid that 
Mrs. Leigh’s words promised her too much 
happiness, and that they could not be true. 
At any rate the instinct of modesty made 
her shrink from saying anything which 
might seem like a confession of her own 
feelings to a third person. Accordingly she 
turned the conversation on the child. 

“ I’m sure he could not help loving Nan- 
ny,” said she. “ There never was such a 
good little darling ; don’t you think she’d 
win his heart if he knew she was his niece, 
and perhaps bring him to think kindly on 
his sister?” 

“ I dunnot know,” said Mrs. Leigh shak- 
ing her head. “ He has a turn in his eye 

like his father, that makes me . He’s 

right down good though. But you see I’ve 
never been a good one at managing folks ; 
one severe look turns me sick, and then I 
say just the wrong thing, I’m so fluttered. 
Now I should like nothing better than to 
take Nancy home with me, but Tom knows 
nothing but that his sister is dead, and I’ve 
not the knack of speaking rightly to Will. 
I dare not do it, and that’s the truth. But 
you mun not think badly of Will. He’s so 
good hissel, that he can’t understand how 


LIZZIE LEIGH. 


1S7 


any one can do wrong ; and, above all, I’m 
sure he loves you dearly.” 

“ I don’t think I could part with Nanny,” 
said Susan, anxious to stop this revelation 
of Will’s attachment to herself. “ He’ll 
come round to her soon ; he can’t fail ; and 
I’ll keep a sharp look-out after the poor 
mother, and try and catch her the next 
time she comes with her little parcel of 
money.” 

“ Aye, lass ! we mun get hold of her ; my 
Lizzie. I love thee dearly for thy kindness 
to her child ; but, if thou canst catch her 
for me, I’ll pray for thee when I’m too near 
my death to speak words ; and while I live, 
I’ll serve thee next to her, — she mun come 
first, thou knowst. God bless thee, lass. 
My heart is lighter by a deal than it was 
when I corned in. Them lads will be look- 
ing for me home, and I mun go, and leave 
this little sweet one,” kissing it. “ If I can 
take courage, I’ll tell Will all that has come 
and gone between us two. He may come 
and see thee, maynt he !” 

“ Father will be very glad to see him, I’m 
sure,” replied Susan. The way in which 
this was spoken satisfied Mrs. Leigh’s anx- 
ious heart that she had done Will no harm 
by what she had said ; and with many a 
kiss to the little one, and one more fervent 
tearful blessing on Susan, she went home- 
wards. 


CHAPTER III. 

That night Mrs. Leigh stopped at home ; 
that only night for many months. Even 
Tom, the scholar, looked up from his books 
in amazement; but then he remembered 
that Will had not been well, and that his 
mother’s attention having been called to the 
circumstance, it was only natural she should 
stay to watch him. And no watching could 
be more tender, or more complete. Her 
loving eyes seemed never averted from his 
face ; his grave, sad, care-wojyi face. When 
Tom went to bed the Another left her seat, 
and going up to Will where he sat looking 
at the fire, but not seeing it, she kissed his 
forehead, and said, 

“ Will I lad. I’ve been to see Susan Pal- 
mer !” 

She felt the start under her hand which 
was placed on his shoulder, but he was 
silent for a minute or two. Then he said, 

“ What took you there, mother ?” 

“ Why, my lad, it was likely I should 
wish to see one you cared for ; I did not 
put myself forward. I put on my Sunday 
clothes, and tried to behave as yo’d ha liked 
me. At least I remember trying at first ; 
but after, I forgot all.” 

She rather wished that he would question 
her as to what made her forget all. But he 
only said, 


“ How was she looking, mother ?’ 

“ Will, thou seest I never set eyes on her 
before ; but she’s a good, gentle looking 
creature ; and I love her dearly, as I’ve rea- 
son to.” 

Will looked up with momentary surprise ; 
for his mother was too shy to be usually 
taken with strangers. But after all it was 
natural in this case, for who could look at 
Susan without loving her ? So still he did 
not ask any questions, and his poor mother 
had to take courage, and try again to in- 
troduce the subject near to her heart. But 
how? 

“Will!” said she (jerking it out, in 
sudden despair of her own powers to lead to 
what she wanted to say), “ I tolled her all.” 

“ Mother ! you’ve ruined me,” said he, 
standing up, and standing opposite to her 
with a stern white look of affright on his 
face. 

“No I my own dear lad ; dunnot look so 
scared, I have not ruined you !” she ex- 
claimed, placing her two hands on his 
shoulders and looking fondly into his face. 
“ She’s not one to harden her heart against 
a mother’s sorrow. My own lad, she’s too 
good for that. She’s not one to judge and 
scorn the sinner. She’s too deep read in 
her New Testament for that. Take courage. 
Will ; and thou mayst, for I watched her 
well, though it is not for one woman to let 
out another’s secret. Sit thee down, lad, 
for thou look’st very white.” 

He sat down. His mother drew a stool 
towards him, and sat at his feet. 

“ Did you tell her about Lizzie, then ?” 
asked he, hoarse and low. 

“ I did, I tolled her all ; and she fell a 
crying over my deep sorrow, and the poor 
wench’s sin. And then a light corned into 
her face, trembling and quivering with some 
new glad thought ; and what dost thou think 
it was. Will, lad? Nay, I’ll not misdoubt 
but that thy heart will give thanks as mine 
did, afore God and His angels, for her great 
goodness. That little Nanny is not her 
niece, she’s our Lizzie’s own child, mj^ little 
grandchild.” She could no longer restrain 
her tears, and they fell hot and fast, but still 
she looked into his face. 

“ Did she know it was Lizzie’s child ? I do 
not comprehend,” said he, flushing red. 

“ She knows now ; she did not at first, 
but took the little helpless creature in, out 
of her own pitiful loving heart, guessing 
only that it was the child of shame, and 
she’s worked for it, and kept it, and tended 
it ever sin’ it were a mere baby, and loves 
it fondly. Will ! won’t you love it ?” asked 
she beseechingly. 

He was silent for an instant; then he 
said, “ Mother, I’ll try. Give me time, for 
all these things startle me. To think of 
Susan having to do with such a child 1” 

“ Aye, Will 1 and to think (as may be yet) 


198 


DICKENS^ NEW STOKIES. 


of Susan having to do with the child’s mo- 
ther! For she is tender and pitiful, and 
speaks hopefully of my lost one, and will try 
and- find her for me, when she comes, as she 
does sometimes, to thrust money under the 
door, for her baby. Think of that. Will. 
Here’s Susan, good and pure as the angels in 
heaven, yet, like them, full of hope and mer- 
cy, and one who like them, will rejoice over 
her as repents. Will, my lad, I’m not afeard 
of you now, and I must speak, and you must 
listen. I am your mother, and I dare to 
command you, because I know I am in the 
right, and that God is on my side. If he 
should lead the poor wandering lassie to 
Susan’s door, and she comes back crying 
and sorrowful, led by that good angel 
to us once more, thou shalt never say a 
casting-up word to her about her sin, but 
be tender and helpful towards one ‘who 
was lost and is found,’ so may God’s 
blessing rest on thee, and so mayst thou 
lead Susan home as thy wife.” 

She stood no longer as the meek, implo- 
ring, gentle mother, but firm and dignified, 
as if the interpreter of God’s will. Her 
manner was so unusual and solemn, that it 
overcame all Will’s pride and stubbornness. 
He rose softly while she was speaking, and 
bent his head as if in reverence at her words, 
and the solemn injunction which they con- 
veyed. When she had spoken, he said in 
so subdued a voice that she was almost sur- 
prised at the sound, “ Mother, I will.” 

“ I may be dead and gone, — but all the 
same, — thou wilt take home the wandering 
sinner, and heal up her sorrows, and lead 
her to her Father’s house. My lad ! I can 
speak no more ; I’m turned very faint.” 

He placed her on a chair ; he ran for 
water. She opened her eyes and smiled. 

“ God bless you. Will. Oh ! I am so 
happy. It seems as if she were found ; my 
hOart is so filled with gladness.” 

That night Mr. Palmer stayed out late 
and long. Susan was afraid that he was at 
his old haunts and habits, — getting tipsy 
at some public-house; and this thought op- 
pressed her, even though she had so much 
to make her happy, in the consciousness 
that Will loved her. She sat up long, and 
then went to bed, leaving all arranged as well 
as she could for her father’s return. She 
looked at the little rosy sleeping girl who 
was her bed-fellow, with redoubled tender- 
ness, and with many a prayerful thought. 
The little arms entwined her neck as she lay 
down, for^ Nanny was a light sleeper, and 
was conscious that she, who was loved with 
all the power of that sweet childish heart, was 
near her, and by her, although she was too 
sleepy to utter any of her half-formed words. 

And by-and,by she heard her father come 
home, stumbling uncertain, trying first the 
windows, and next the door-fastenings, with 
many a loud incoherent murmur. The little 


innocent twined around her seemed all the 
sweeter and more lovely, when she thought 
sadly of her erring father. And presently 
he called aloud for a light; she had left 
matches and all arranged as usual on the 
dresser, but fearful of some accident from 
fire, in his unusually intoxicated state, she 
now got up softly, and putting on a cloak, 
went down to his assistance. 

Alas ! the little arms that were unclosed 
from her soft neck belonged to a light, easily 
awakened sleeper. Nanny missed her dar- 
ling Susy, and terrified at being left alone 
in the vast mysterious darkness, which had 
no bounds, and seemed infinite, she slipped 
out of bed, and tottered in her little night- 
gown towards the door. There was a light 
below, and there was Susy and safety ! So 
she went onwards two steps towards the 
steep abrupt stairs ; and then dazzled with 
sleepiness, she stood, she wavered, she fell I 
Down on her head on the stone floor she fell I 
Susan flew to her, and spoke all soft, entreat- 
ing, loving words ; but her white lids covered 
up the blue violets of eyes, and there was no 
murmur came out of the pale lips. The 
warm tears that rained down did not awaken 
her ; she lay stiff, and weary with her short 
life, on Susan’s knee. Susan went sick with 
terror. She carried her up stairs, and laid 
her tenderly in bed ; she dressed herself 
most hastily, with her trembling fingers. 
Her father was asleep on the settle down 
stairs ; and useless, and worse than useless if 
awake. But Susan flew out of the door, and 
down the quiet resounding street, towards 
the nearest doctor’s house. Quickly she 
went; but as quickly a shadow followed, ’as 
if impelled by some sudden terror. Susan 
rung wildly the night-bell,— the shadow 
crouched near. The doctor looked out from 
an upstairs window. 

“ A little child has fallen down stairs at 
No. 9, Crown-street, and is very ill, — dying 
I’m afraid. Please, for God’s sake, sir, 
come directly. No. 9, Crown-street.” 

” I’ll be there directly,” said he, and shut 
the window. 

“ For that God you have just spoken about, 
— for His sake, — tell me are you Susan 
Palmer ? Is it my child that lies a-dying ?” 
said the shadow, springing forwards, and 
clutching poor Susan’s arm. 

“ It is a little child of two years old, — I do 
not know whose it is ; I love it as my own. 
Come with me, whoever you are ; come with 
me.” 

^ The ,two sped along the silent streets, — as 
silent as the night were they. They entered 
the house; Susan snatched up the light, and 
carried it up stairs. The other followed. 

She stood with wild glaring eyes by the 
bedside, never looking at Susan, but hun- 
grily gazing at the little white still child. 
She stooped down, and put her hand tight 
on her own heart, as if to still its beating, 


LIZZIE LEIGH. 


and bent her ear to the pale lips. Whatever 
the result was, she did not speak ; but threw 
off the bed-clothes wherewith Susan had ten- 
derly covered up the little creature, and felt 
its left side, 

Then she threw up her arms with a cry 
of wild despair. 

“ She is dead ! she is dead \” 

She looked so fierce, so mad, so haggard, 
that for an instant Susan was terrified — the 
next, the holy God had put courage into her 
heart, and her pure arms were round that 
guilty wretched creature, and her tears were 
falling fast and warm upon her breast. But 
she was thrown off with violence. 

“ You killed her — you slighted her — you 
let her fall ! you killed her !” 

Susan cleared off the thick mist before her, 
and gazing at the mother with a clear, sweet, 
angel-eyes, said mournfully — 

“ I would have laid down my own life for 
her.'^ 

‘‘ Oh, the murder is on my soul I” ex- 
claimed the wild bereaved mother, with the 
fierce impetuosity of one who has none to 
love her and to be beloved, regard to whom 
might teach self-restraint. 

“ Hush V’ said Susan, her fingers on her 
lips. “ Here is the doctor. God may suffer 
her to live.^^ 

The poor mother turned sharp round. 
The doctor mounted the stair. Ah ! that 
mother was right ; the little child was really 
dead and gone. 

And when he confirmed her judgment, 
the mother fell down in a fit. Susan, with 
her deep grief, had to forget herself, and 
forget her darling (her charge for years), 
and question the doctor what she must do 
with the poor wretch, who lay on the floor 
in such extreme misery. 

She is the mother said she. 

“ Why did not she take care of the child V’ 
asked he, almost angrily. 

But Susan only said, “ The little child 
slept with me ; and it was I that left her.'^ 
“ I will go back and make up a com- 
posing draught ; and while I am away you 
must get her to bed.^^ 

Susan took out some of her own clothes, 
and softly undressed the stiff, powerless 
form. There was no other bed in the house 
but the one in which her father slept. So she 
tenderly lifted the body of her darling ; and 
was going to take it down stairs, but the 
mother opened her eyes, and seeing what 
she was about she said, 

“ I am not worthy to touch her, I am so 
wicked ; I have spoken to you as I never 
should have spoken; but I think you are 
very good ; may I have my own child to lie 
in my arms for a little while 

Her voice was so strange a contrast to 
what it had been before she had gone into 
the fit that Susan hardly recognised it ; it 
was now so unspeakably soft, so irresistibly 


199 

pleading; the features too had lor* their 
fierce expression, and were almost as placid 
as death. Susan could not speak, bat she 
carried the little child, and laid it in its 
mother’s arms ; then as she looked at them, 
something overpowered her, and she knelt 
down, crying aloud, 

“ Oh, my God, my God, have mercy on 
her, and forgive, and comfort her.” 

But the mother kept smiling, and stroking 
the little face, murmuring soft tender words, 
as if it were alive ; she was going mad, 
Susan thought ; but she prayed on, and on, 
and ever still she prayed with streaming 
eyes. 

The doctor came with the draught. The 
mother took it, with docile unconsciousness 
of its nature as medicine. The doctor sat 
by her and soon she fell asleep. Then he 
rose softly, and beckoning Susan to the 
door, he spoke to her there. 

“ You must take the corpse out of her 
arms. She will not awake. That draught 
will make her sleep for many hours. I will 
call before noon again. It is now daylight. 
Good-bye.” 

Susan shut him out ; and then gently ex- 
tricating the dead child from its mother’s 
arms, she could not resist making her own 
quiet moan over her darling. She tried to 
learn off its little placid face, dumb and pale 
before her. 

“Not all the scalding tears of care 
Shall wash away that vision fair ! 

Not all the thousand thoughts that rise, 

Not all the sights that dim her eyes^ 

Shall e’er usurp the place 
Of that little angel-face.” 

And then she remembered what remained 
to be done. She saw that all was right in 
the house ; her father was still dead asleep 
on the settle, in spite of all the noise of the 
night. She went out through the quiet 
streets, deserted still although it was broad 
daylight, and to where the Leighs lived. 
Mrs. Leigh, who kept her country hours, 
was opening her window shutters. Susan 
took her by the arm, and, without speaking, 
went into the house-place. There she knelt 
down before the astonished Mrs. Leigh, and 
cried as she had never done before ; but the 
miserable night had overpowered her, and 
she who had gone through so much calmly, 
now that the pressure seemed removed could 
not find the power to speak. 

“ My poor dear ! What has made thy 
heart so sore as to come and cry a-this-ns. 
Speak and tell me. Nay, cry on, poor wench, 
if thou canst not speak yet. It will ease the 
heart, and then thou canst tell me.” 

“Nanny is deadl” said Susan. “I left 
her to go to father, and she fell down stairs, 
and never breathed again. Oh, that’s my 
sorrow ! but I’ve more to tell. Her mother 


200 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


is come — is in our house ! Come and see if 
it’s your Lizzie/^ Mrs. Leigh could not 
speak, but trembling, put on her things, and 
•went with Susan in dizzy haste back to 
Crown- street. 


CHAPTER IV. 

As they entered the house in Crown-street, 
they perceived that the door would not open 
freely on its hinges, and Susan instinctively 
looked behind to see the cause of the ob- 
struction. She immediately recognised the 
appearance of a little parcel, wrapped in a 
scrap of newspaper, and evidently contain- 
ing money. She stooped and picked it up. 

“ Look said she, sorrowfully, “the mo- 
ther was bringing this for her child last 
ni^t.'^ 

But Mrs. Leigh did not answer. So near 
to the ascertaining if it were her lost child 
or no, she could not be arrested, but pressed 
onwards with trembling steps and a beating, 
fluttering heart. She entered the bed-room, 
dark and still. She took no heed of the little 
corpse, over which Susan paused, but she 
went straight to the bed, and withdrawing 
the curtain, saw Lizzie, — but not the former 
Lizzie, bright, gay, buoyant, and undimmed. 
This Lizzie was old before her time ; her 
beauty was gone ; deep lines of care, and alas ! 
of want (or thus the mother imagined) were 
printed on the cheek, so round, and fair, 
and smooth, when last she gladdened her 
mother’s eyes. Even in her sleep she bore 
the look of woe and despair which was the 
prevalent expression of her face by day; 
even in her sleep she had forgotten how to 
smile. But all these marks of the sin and 
sorrow she had passed through only made 
her mother love her the more. She stood 
looking at her with greedy eyes, which 
seemed as though no gazing could satisfy 
their longing ; and at last she stooped down 
and kissed the pale, worn hand that lay 
outside the bed-clothes. No touch disturbed 
the sleeper ; the mother need not have laid 
the hand so gently down upon the counter- 
pane. There was no sign of life, save only 
now and then a deep sob-like sigh. Mrs. 
Leigh sat down beside the bed, and still 
holding back the curtain, looked on and on, 
as if she could never be satisfied. 

Susan would fain have stayed by her darling 
one ; but she had many calls upon her time 
and thoughts, and her will had now, as ever, 
to be given up to that of others. All seemed 
to devolve the burden of their cares on her. 
Her father, ill-humored from his last night’s 
intemperance, did not scruple to reproach 
her with being the cause of little Nanny’s 
•death ; and when, after hearing his up- 
braiding meekly for some time, she could 
no longer restrain herself, but began to cry, 


he wounded her even more by his injudicious 
attempts at comfort ; for he said it was as 
well the child was dead; it was none of 
theirs, and why should they be troubled 
with it ? Susan wrung her hands at this, 
and came and stood before her father, and 
implored him to forbear. Then she had to 
take all requisite steps for the coroner’s in- 
quest ; she had to arrange for the dismissal 
of her school ; she had to summon a little 
neighbor, and send his willing feet on a 
message to William Leigh, who, she felt, 
ought to be informed of his mother’s where- 
abouts, and of the whole state of affairs. 
She asked her messenger to tell him to come 
and speak to her, — that his mother was at 
her house. She was thankful that her father 
sauntered out to have a gossip at the nearest 
coach-stand, and to relate as many of the 
night’s adventures as he knew ; for as yet he 
was in ignorance of the watcher and the 
watched, who silently passed away the hours 
up stairs. 

At dinner-time Will came. He looked 
red, glad, impatient, excited. Susan stood 
calm and white before him, her soft, loving 
eyes gazing straight into his. 

“ Will,” said she, in a low, quiet voice, 
“ your sister is up stairs.” 

“ My sister !” said he, as if affright^ at 
the idea, and losing his glad look in one of 
gloom. Susan saw it, and her heart sank a 
little, but she went on as calm to all appear- 
ance as ever. 

“ She was little Nanny’s mother, as per- 
haps you know. Poor little Nanny was 
killed last night by a fall down stairs.” All 
the calmness was gone ; all the suppressed 
feeling was displayed in spite of every effort. 
She sat down, and hid her face from him, 
and cried bitterly. He forgot everything 
but the wish, the longing to comfort her. 
He put his arm around her waist, and bent 
over her. But all he could say, was^ “ Oh, 
Susan, how can I comfort you ! Don’t take 
on so, — pray don’t !” He never changed the 
words, but the tone varied every time he 
spoke. At last she seemed to regain her 
power over herself ; and she wiped her eyes, 
and once more looked upon him with her 
own quiet, earnest, and unfearing gaze. 

“Your sister was near the house. She 
came in on hearing my words to the doctor. 
She is asleep now, and your mother ia 
watching her. I wanted to tell you all my- 
self. Would you like to see your mother ?” 

“ No !” said he. “I would rather see 
none but thee. Mother told me thou knew’st 
all.” His eyes were downcast in their 
shame. 

But the holy and pure, did not lower or 
vail her eyes. 

She said, “ Yes, I know all — all but her suf- 
ferings. Think what they must have been !” 

He made answer low and stern, “She de* 
served them all ; every jot.” 


LIZZIE LEIGH. 


201 


“ In the eye of God, perhaps she does, 
lie is the judge ; we are not.’^ 

“Ohr^ she said with a sudden burst, 
“Will Leigh! I have thought so well of 
you ; don’t go and make me think you cruel 
and hard. Goodness is not goodness unless 
there is mercy and tenderness with it. There 
is your mother who has been nearly heart- 
broken, now full of rejoicing over her child 
— think of your mother.” 

“ I do think of her,” said he. “ I re- 
member the promise I gave her last night. 
Thou shouldst give me time. I would do 
right in time. I never think it o’er in quiet. 
But I will do what is right and fitting, 
never fear. Thou hast spoken out very 
plain to me ; and misdoubted me, Susan ; 
I love thee so, that thy words cut me. If I 
did hang back a bit from making sudden 
promises, it was because not even for love 
of thee, would I say what I was not feeling ; 
and at first I could not feel all at once as 
thou wouldst have me. But I’m not cruel 
and hard ; for if I had been, I should na’ 
have grieved as I have done.” 

He made as if he were going away ; and 
indeed he did feel he would rather think it 
over in quiet. But Susan, grieved at her 
incautious words, which had all the appear- 
ance of harshness, went a step or two nearer 
— paused — and then, all over blushes, said 
in a low soft whisper — 

“ Oh Will 1 I beg your pardon. I am 
very sorry — wont you forgive me ?” 

She who had always drawn back, and 
been so reserved, said this in the very softest 
manner ; with eyes now uplifted beseech- 
ingly, now dropped to the ground. Her 
sweet confusion told more than words could 
do ; and Will turned back, all joyous in his 
certainty of being beloved, and took her in 
his arms and kissed her. 

“ My own Susan I” he said. 

Meanwhile the mother watched her. child 
in the room above. 

It was late in the afternoon before she 
awoke ; for the sleeping draught had been 
very powerful. The instant she awoke, her 
eyes were fixed on her mother’s face with a 
gaze as unflinching as if she were fasci- 
nated. Mrs. Leigh did not turn away ; nor 
move. For it seemed as if motion would 
unlock the stony command over herself 
which, while so perfectly still, she was 
enabled to preserve. But by-and-bye Lizzie 
cried out in a piercing voice of agony — 

“ Mother, don’t look at me 1 I have been 
so wicked !” and instantly she hid her face, 
and grovelled among the bedclothes, and 
lay like one dead — so motionless was she. 

Mrs. Leigh knelt down by the bed, and 
spoke in the most soothing tones. 

“ Lizzie, dear, don’t speak so. I’m thy 
mother, darling; don’t be afeard of me. 
I never left oflf loving thee, Lizzie. I was 
always a-thinking of thee. Thy father for- 


gave thee afore he died.” (There was a 
little start here, but no sound was heard.) 
“ Lizzie, lass. I’ll do aught for thee ; I’ll 
live for thee ; only don’t be afeard of me. 
Whate’er thou art or hast been, we’ll ne’er 
speak on’t. We’ll leave th’ oud times be- 
hind us, and go back to the Upclose Farm. 
I but left it to find thee, my lass ; and God 
has led me to thee. Blessed be His name. 
And God is good too, Lizzie. Thou hast 
not forgotten thy Bible, I’ll be bound, for 
thou wert always a scholar. I’m no reader, 
but I learnt off them texts to comfort me a 
bit, and I’ve said them many a day to my- 
self. Lizzie, lass, don’t hide thy head so, 
it’s thy mother as is speaking to thee. Thy 
little child clung to me only yesterday; 
and if it’s gone to be an angel, it will speak 
to God for thee. Nay, don’t sob a that ’as ; 
thou shalt have it again in Heaven ; I 
know thou’lt strive to get there, for thy 
little Nanny’s sake — and listen 1 I’ll tell 
thee God’s promises to them that are peni- 
tent — only don’t be afeard 1” 

Mrs. Leigh folded her hands, and strove to 
speak very clearly, while she repeated every 
tender and merciful text she could remem- 
ber. She could tell from the breathing that 
her daughter was listening ; but she was so 
dizzy and sick herself when she had ended, 
that she could not go on speaking. It was 
all she could do to keep from crying aloud. 

At last she heard her daughter’s voice. 

“ Where have they taken her to ?” she 
asked. 

“ She is down stairs. So quiet, and 
peaceful and happy she looks.” 

“ Could she speak ? Oh, if God — if I 
might but have heard her little voice I 
Mother, I used to dream of it. May I see 
her once again — Oh mother, if I strive very 
hard, and God is very merciful, and I go to 
heaven, I shall not know her — I shall not 
know my own again — she will shun me as 
a stranger and cling to Susan Palmer and 
to you. Oh woe I Oh woe !” She shook 
with exceeding sorrow. 

In her earnestness of speech she had un- 
covered her face and tried to read Mrs. 
Leigh’s thoughts through her looks. And 
when she saw those aged eyes brimming 
full of tears, and marked the quivering lips, 
she threw her arms around the faithful 
mother’s neck, and wept there as she had 
done in many a childish sorrow ; but with 
a deeper, a more wretched grief. 

Her mother hushed her on her breast; 
and lulled her as if she were a baby ; and 
she grew still and quiet. 

They sat thus for a long, long time. At 
last, Susan Palmer came up with some tea 
and bread and butter for Mrs. Leigh. She 
watched the mother feed her sick, unwill- 
ing child, with every fond inducement to 
eat which she could devise ; they neither 
of them took notice of Susan’s presence. 


202 


DiCKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


That night they lay in each other's arms ; 
hut Susan slept on the ground beside them. 

They took the little corpse (the little un- 
conscious sacrifice, whose early calling-home 
had reclaimed her poor wandering mother,) 
to the hills, which in her life-time she had 
never seen. They dared not lay her by the 
stern grand-father in Milne-Row church- 
yard, but they bore her to a lone moorland 
graveyard, where long ago the quakers used 
to bury their dead. They laid her there 
on the sunny slope, where the earliest 
spring-flowers blow. 

Will and Susan live at the Upclose Farm. 
Mrs. Leigh and Lizzie dwell in a cottage so 
secluded that, until you drop into the very 
hollow where it is placed, you do not see it. 
Tom is a schoolmaster in Rochdale, and he 
and Will help to support their mother. I 
only know that, if the cottage be hidden in 
a green hollow of the hills, every sound of 


sorrow in the whole upland is heard there 
— every call of suffering or of sickness for 
help is listened to, by a sad, gentle-looking 
woman, who rarely smiles (and when she 
does, her smile is more sad than other peo- 
ple's tears), but who comes out of her se- 
clusion whenever there's a shadow in any 
household. Many hearts bless Lizzie Leigh, 
but she — she prays always and ever for for- 
giveness — such forgiveness as may enable 
her to see her child once more. Mrs. 
Leigh is quiet and happy. Lizzie is to her 
eyes something precious — as the lost piece 
of silver— ^found once more. Susan is the 
bright one who brings sunshine to all. 
Children grow around her and call her 
blessed. One is called Nanny. Her, Liz- 
zie often takes to the sunny graveyard in 
the uplands, and while the little creature 
gathers the daisies^, and make chains, Liz- 
zie sits by a little grave, and weeps bitterly. 


DATJGHTEES. 


THE MINER’S 

A TALE OF THE PEAK. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE CHILD^S TRAGEDY. 

\ 

^ There is no really beautiful part of this 
kingdom so little known as the Peak of 
Derbyshire. Matlock, with its tea-garden 
trumpery and mock-heroic wonders ; Bux- 
ton, with its bleak hills and fashionable 
bathers ; the truly noble Chatsworth and 
the venerable Haddon, engross almost all 
that the public generally have seen of the 
Peak. It is talked of as a land of moun- 
tains, which in reality are only hills ; but 
its true beauty lies in valleys that have been 
created by the rending of the earth in some 
primeval convulsion, and which present a 
thousand charms to the eyes of the lover of 
nature. How deliciously do the crystal 
waters of the Wye and the Dove rush along 
such valleys, or dales, as they are called. 
With what a wild variety do the gray rocks 
soar up amid their woods and copses. How 
airily stand in the clear heavens the lofty 
limestone precipices, and the gray edges of 
rock gleam out from the bare green downs 
— there never called downs. What a genu- 
ine Saxon air is there cast over the popula- 
tion, what a Saxon bluntness salutes you in 
their speech ! 

It is into the heart of this region that we 
propose now to carry the reader. Let him 
suppose himself with us now on the road 
from Ashford-in-the-water to Tideswell. We 
are at the Bull's Head, a little inn on that 
road. There is nothing to create wonder, 
or a suspicion of a hidden Arcadia in any- 
thing you see, but another step forward, 
and — there ! There sinks a world of valleys 
at your feet. To your left lies the delicious 
Mon sal Dale. Old Finn Hill lifts his gray 
head grandly over it. Hobthrush's Castle 
stands bravely forth in the hollow of his 
side — gray, and desolate, and mysterious. 
The sweet Wye goes winding and sounding 
at his feet, amid its narrow green meadows, 
green as the emerald, and its dark glossy 


alders. Before us stretches on, equally 
beautiful, Cressbfook Dale ; Little Edale 
shows its cottages from amidst its trees ; and 
as we advance, the Mousselin-de-laine Mills 
stretch across the mouth of Miller’s Dale, 
and startle with the aspect of so much life 
amid so much solitude. 

But our way is still onward. We resist 
the attraction of Cressbrook village on its 
lofty eminence, and plunge to the right, into 
Wardlow Dale. Here we are buried deep 
in woods, and yet behold still deeper the 
valley descend below us. There is an Al- 
pine feeling upon us. We are carried once 
more, as in a dream, into the Saxon Switzer- 
land. Above us stretch the boldest ranges 
of lofty precipices, and deep amid the woods 
are heard the voices of children. These 
come from a few workmen’s houses, couched 
at the foot of a cliff that rises high and bright 
amid the sun. That is Wardlow Cop; and^' 
there we mean to halt for a moment. For- 
wards lies a wild region of hills, and valleys, 
and lead-mines, but forward goes no road, 
except such as you can make yourself 
through the tangled woods. ' 

At the foot of Wardlow Cop, before this 
little hamlet of Bellamy Wick was built, or 
the glen was dignified with the name of 
Raven Dale, there lived a miner who had 
no term for his place of abode. He lived, 
he said, under Wardlow Cop, and that con- 
tented him. 

His house was one of those little, solid, 
gray limestone cottages, with gray flagstone 
roofs, which abound in the Peak. It had 
stood under that lofty precipice when the 
woods which now so densely fill the valley 
were but newly planted. There had been 
a mine near it, which had no doubt been 
the occasion of its erection in so solitary a 
place ; but that mine was now worked out, 
and David Dunster, the miner, now worked 
at a mine right over the hills in Miller’s 
Dale. He was seldom at home, except at 
night, and on Sundays. Ilis wife, besides 
keeping her little house, and digging and 


204 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


weeding in the strip of a garden that lay on 
the steep slope above the house, hemmed in 
with a stone wall, also seamed stockings for 
a framework-knitter in Ashford, whither she 
went once or twice in the week. 

They had three children, a boy and two 
girls. The boy was about eight years of 
age ; the girls were about five and six. 
These children were taught their lessons of 
spelling and reading by the mother, amongst 
her other multifarious tasks ; for she was 
one of those who are called regular plodders. 
She was quiet, patient, and always doing, 
though never in a bustle. She was not one 
of those who acquire a character for vast in- 
dustry by doing everything in a mighty 
flurry, though they contrive to find time for 
a tolerable deal of gossip under the plea of 
resting a bit, and which “resting a bit” 
they always terminate by an exclamation 
that “ they must be off though, for they have 
a world of work to do.” Betty Dunstar, on 
the contrary, was looked on as rather “ a 
slow coach.” If you remarked that she was 
a hard-working woman, the reply was, 
“Well, she’s always doing — Betty’s work’s 
never done ; but then she does na hurry 
hersen.” The fact was, Betty was a thin, 
spare woman, of no very strong constitution, 
but of an untiring spirit. Her pleasure and 
rest were, when David came home at night, 
to have his supper ready, and to sit down 
opposite to him at the little round table, and 
help him, giving a bit now and then to the 
children, that came and stood round, though 
they had had their suppers, and were ready 
for bed as soon as they had seen something 
of their “ dad.” 

David Dunster was one of those remark- 
ably tall fellows that you see about these 
hills, who seem of all things the very worst 
made men to creep into the little mole holes 
on the hill sides that they call lead-mines. 
But David did manage to burrow under and 
through the hard limestone rocks as well as 
any of them. He was a hard-working man, 
though he liked a sup of beer, as most Derby- 
shire men do, and sometimes came home 
none of the soberest. He was naturally of 
a very hasty temper, and would fly into 
great rages ; and if he were put out by any- 
thing in the working of the mines, or the 
conduct of his fellow-workmen, he would 
stay away from home for days, drinking at 
Tideswell, or the Bull’s Head at the top of 
Monsal Dale, or down at the Miner’s Arms 
at Ashford-in-the-water. 

Betty Dunster bore all this patiently. 
She looked on these things somewhat as 
matters of course. At that time, and even 
now, how few miners do not drink and “ rol 
a bit,” as they call it. She was, therefore, 
tolerant, and let the storms blow over, ready 
always to persuade her husband to go home 
and sleep off his drink and anger, but if 
he were too violent, leaving him till ano- 


ther attempt might succeed better. She 
was very fond of her children, and not only 
taught them on week days their lessons, and 
to help her to seam, but also took them t» 
the Methodist Chapel in “ Tidser,” as they 
called Tideswell, whither, whenever she 
could, she enticed David. David, too, in hia 
way, was fond of the children, especially of 
the boy, who was called David after him. 
He was quite wrapped up in the lad, to use 
the phrase of the people in that part; in 
fact, he was foolishly and mischievously 
fond of him. He would give him beer to 
drink, “ to make a true Briton on him,” as 
he said, spite of Betty’s earnest endeavor to 
prevent it — telling him that he was laying 
the foundation in the lad of the same faults 
that he had himself. But David Dunster 
did not look on drinking as a fault at all. It 
was what he had been used to all his life. It 
was what all the miners had been used to 
for generations. A man was looked on as a 
milk-sop and a Molly Coddle, that would not 
take his mug of ale, and be merry with his 
comrades. It required the’ light of educa- 
tion, and the efforts that have been made by 
the Temperance Societies, to break in on 
this ancient custom of drinking, which, no 
doubt, has flourished in these hills since the 
Danes and other Scandinavians bored and 
perforated them of old for the ores of lead 
and copper. To Betty Dunster’s remon- 
strances, and commendations of tea, David 
would reply — “ Botheration, Betty, wench ! 
Dunna tell me about thy tea and such-like 
pig’s-wesh. It’s all very well for women ; 
but a man, Betty, a man mun ha’ a sup of 
real stingo, lass. He mun ha’ summut to 
prop his ribs out, lass, as he delves through 
th’ chert and tood-stone. When tha weylds 
th’ maundrel (the pick), and I wesh th’ 
dishes, tha shall ha’ th’ drink, my wench, 
and I’ll ha’ th’ tea. Till then, prithee let 
me aloon, and dunna bother me, for it’s no 
use. It only kicks my monkey up.” 

And Betty found that it was of no use ; 
that it did only kick his monkey up, and so 
she let him alone, except when she could 
drop in a persuasive word or two. The 
mill-owners at Cressbrook and Miller’s Dale 
had forbidden any public-house nearer than 
Edale, and they had more than once called 
the people together to point out to them the 
mischiefs of drinking, and the advantages 
to be derived from the very savings of 
temperance. But all these measures, though 
they had some effect on the mill people, had 
very little on the miners. They either sent 
to Tideswell or Edale for kegs of beer to 
peddle at the mines, or they went thither 
themselves on receiving their wages. 

And let no one suppose that David Dunster 
was worse than his fellows ; or that Betty 
Dunster thought her case a particularly hard 
one. David was “ pretty much of a much- 
ness,” according to the country phrase, with 


THE MINER’S DAUGHTERS. 


205 


the rest of his hard-working tribe, which 
was, and always had been, a hard-drinking 
tribe ; and Betty, though she wished it dif- 
ferent, did not complain, justbecause it was 
of no use, and because she was no worse 
off than her neighbors. 

Often when she went to “ carry in her 
hose” to Ashford, she left the children at 
home by themselves. She had no alterna- 
tive. They were there in that solitary valley 
for many hours playing alone. And to them 
it was not solitary. It was all that they 
knew of life, and that all was very pleasant 
to them. In spring, they hunted for birds’- 
nests in the copses, and amongst the rocks 
and gray stones that had fallen from them. 
In the copses built the blackbirds and 
thrushes ; in the rocks the firetails ; and the 
gray wagtails in the stones which were so 
exactly of their own color, as to make it 
difficult to see them. In summer, they gath- 
ered flowers and berries, and in the winter 
they played at horses, kings, and shops, and 
sundry other things in the house. 

On one of these occasions, a bright after- 
noon in autumn, the three children had 
rambled down the glen, and found a world 
of amusement in being teams of horses, in 
making a little mine at the foot of a tall cliff, 
and in marching for soldiers, for they had 
one day — the only time in their lives — seen 
some soldiers go through the village of Ash- 
ford, when they had gone there with their 
mother, for she now and then took them 
with her when she had something from the 
shop to carry besides her bundle of hose. 
At length they came to the foot of an open 
hill winch swelled to a considerable height, 
with a round and climable side, on which 
grew a wilderness of bushes amid which lay 
scattered masses of gray crag. A small 
winding path went up this, and they followed 
it. It was not long, however, before they 
saw some things which excited their eager 
attention. Little David, who was the guide, 
and assumed to himself much importance as 
the protector of his sisters, exclaimed, “ See 
here !” and springing forward, plucked a fine 
crimson cluster of the mountain bramble. 
His sisters, on seeing this, rushed on with 
like eagerness. They soon forsook the little 
winding and craggy footpath, and hurried 
through sinking masses of moss and dry 
grass, from bush to bush and place to place. 
They were soon far up above the valley, and 
almost every step revealed to them some 
delightful prize. The clusters of the moun- 
tain bramble, resembling mulberries, and 
known only to the inhabitants of the hills, 
were abundant and were rapidly devoured. 
The dewberry was as eagerly gathered — its 
large, purple fruit passing with them for 
blackberries. In their hands were soon seen 
posies of the lovely grass of Parnassus,- the 
mountain cistus, and the bright blue gera- 
nium. 


Higher and higher the little group as- 
cended in this quest, till the sight of the 
wide, naked hills, and the hawks circling 
round the lofty tower-like crags over their 
heads, made them feel serious and somewhat 
afraid. 

“ Where are we ?” asked Jane, the elder 
sister. “ Arn’t we a long way from horn ?” 

“ Let us go horn,” said little Nancy. 

Pm afeerd here clutching hold of Jane’s 
frock. 

“ Pho, nonsense !” said David “ what are 
you afeerd on ? I’ll tak care on you, niver 
fear.” 

And with this he assumed a bold and de- 
fying aspect, and said, “ Come along; there 
are nests in th’ hazzles up yonder.” 

He began to mount again, but the two 
girls hung back and said, “ Nay, David, 
dunna go higher ; we are both afeerd and 
Jane added, “ It’s a long wee from horn. I’m 
sure.” 

“ And those birds screechen’ so up there; 
I darna go up,” added little Nancy. They 
were the hawks that she meant, which hov- 
ered whimpering and screaming about the 
highest cliffs. David called them little cow- 
ards, but began to descend, and, presently, 
seeking for berries and flowers as they de- 
scended, they regained the little winding, 
craggy road, and, while they were calling to 
each other, discovered a remarkable echo on 
the opposite hill side. On this, they shouted 
to it, and laughed, and were half frightened 
when it laughed and shouted again. Little 
Nancy said it must be an old man in the in- 
side of the mountain ; at which they were 
all really afraid, though Dand put on a big 
look and said, “ Nonsense ! ic was nothing 
at all.” But Jane asked how nothing at 
all could shout and laugh as it did ? and on 
this little Nancy plucked her again by the 
frock, and said in turn, “ Oh, dear, let’s go 
horn !” 

But at this David gave a wild whoop to 
frighten them, and when the hill whooped 
again, and the sisters began to run, he burst 
into laughter, and the strange spectral Ha ! 
ha I ha ! that ran along the inside of the hill 
as it were, completed their fear, and they 
stopped their ears with their hands and 
scuttled away down the hill. But now 
David seized them, and pulling their hand-s 
down from their heads, he said, “ See here ! 
what a nice place with the stones sticking out 
like seats. Why, it’s like a little house ; let 
us stay and play a bit here.” It was a little 
hollow in the hill side surrounded by project- 
ing stones like an amphitheatre. The sisters 
were still afraid, but the sight of this little 
hollow with its seats of crag had such a 
charm for them that they promised David 
they would stop a while, if he would prom- 
ise not to shout and awake the echo. David 
readily promised this, and so they sat down, 
David proposed to keep a school, and cut a 


206 DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


hazel wand from a bush and began to lord it 
over his two scholars in a "very pompous 
manner. The two sisters pretended to be 
much afraid, and to read very diligently on 
pieces of flat stone which they had picked 
up. And then David became a serjeant and 
was drilling them for soldiers, and stuck 
pieces of fern into their hair for cockades. 
And then, soon after, they were sheep, and 
he was the shepherd ; and he was catching 
his flock and going to shear them, and made 
so much noise that Jane cried, “Hold! 
there’s the echo mocking us.’’ 

At this they all were still. But David 
said, “ Pho ! never mind the echo ; I must 
shear my sheep but just as he was seizing 
little Nancy to pretend to shear her with a 
piece of stick, Jane cried out, “Look! look! 
how black it is coming down the valley 
there ! There’s going to be a dreadful starm ; 
let us hurry horn !” 

David and Nancy both looked up, and 
agreed to run as fast down the hill as they 
could. But the next moment the driving 
storm swept over the hill, and the whole 
valley was hid in it. The three children 
still hurried on, but it became quite dark, 
and they soon lost the track, and were 
tossed about by the wind, so that they had 
difficulty to keep on their legs. Little Nancy 
began to cry, and the three taking hold of 
each other endeavored in silence to make 
their way homewards. But presently they 
all stumbled over a lai'ge stone, and fell 
some distance down the hill. They were 
not hurt, but much frightened, for they now 
remembered the precipices, and were afraid 
every minute of going over them. They 
now strove to find the track by going up 
again, but they could not find it anywhere. 
Sometimes they went upwards till they 
thought they were quite too far, and then 
tliey went downwards till they were com- 
pletely bewildered ; and then, like the Babes 
in tlie Wood, “They sate them down and 
cried.” 

But ere they had sate long, they heard 
footsteps, and listened. They certainly 
heard them and shouted, but there was no 
answer. David shouted, “ Help ! fayther ! 
mother ! help !” but there was no answer. 
Tiie wind swept fiercely by ; the hawks 
whimpered from the high crags, lost in the 
darkness of the storm ; and the rain fell, 
driving along icy cold. Presently, there was 
a gleam of light through the clouds ; the 
hill-side became visible, and through the 
haze they saw a tall figure as of an old man 
ascending the hill. He appeared to carry 
two loads slung from his shoulders by a 
strap ; a box hanging before, and a bag 
hanging at his back. He wound up the hill 
slowly and wearily, and presently he stop- 
ped and relieving himself of his load, seated 
himself on a piece of crag to rest. Again 
David shouted, but there still was no answer. 


The old man sate as if no shout had been 
heard — immoveable. ' 

“ It is a man,” said David, “ and I will 
mak him hear and with that he shouted 
once more with all his might. But the old 
man made no sign of recognition. He did 
not even turn his head, but he took off his 
hat and began to wipe his brow as if warm 
with the ascent. 

“ What can it be ?” said David in aston- 
ishment. “ It is a man, that’s sartain. I’ll 
run and see.” 

“ Nay, nay !” shrieked the sisters. 
“Don’t, David! don’t! It’s perhaps the 
old man out of the mountain that’s been 
mocking us. Perhaps,” added Jane, “ he 
only comes out in storms and darkness.” 

“Stuff!” said David, “an echo isn’t a 
man ; it’s only our own voices. I’ll see who 
it is and away he darted, spite of Iht poor 
girl’s crying in terror, “ Don’t; don’t, David 1 
Oh, don’t.” 

But David was gone. He was not long in 
reaching the old man, who sate on his stone 
breathing hard, as if out of breath with his 
ascent, but not appearing to perceive David’s 
approach. The rain and the wind drov' 
fiercely upon him, but he did not seem t(' 
mind it. David was half afraid to approach 
close to him, but he called out, “ Help ; 
help, mester!” The old man remained as 
unconscious of his presence. “ Hillo !” cried 
David again. “ Can you tell us the way 
down, mester ?” There was no answer, and 
David was beginning to feel a shudder of 
terror run through every limb, when the 
clouds cleared considerably, and he suddenly 
exclaimed, “ Why it’s old Tobias Turton of 
top of Edale, and he’s as deaf as a door nail !” 

In an instant, David was at his side ; 
seized his coat to make him aware of his 
presence ; and, on the old man perceiving 
him, shouted in his ear, “ Which is the way 
down here, Mester Turton? Where’s the 
track ?” 

“ Down ? Weighs o’ the back ?” said the 
old man ; “ ay, my lad, I was fain to sit 
down ; it does weigh o’ th’ back, sure 
enough.” 

“ Where’s the foot-track ?” shouted David, 
again. 

“ Th’ foot-track ? Why, what art ta doing 
here, my lad, in such a starm ? Isn’t it 
David Dunster’s lad ?” 

David nodded. “ Why the track’s here ! 
see and the old man stamped his foot. 
“ Get down horn, my lad, as fast as thou can. 
What dun they do letting thee be upon th’ 
hills in such a dee as this ?” 

David nodded his thanks, and turned to 
descend the track, while the old man, adjust- 
ing his burden again, silently and wearily 
recommenced his way upwards. 

David shouted to his sisters as he de- 
scended, and they quickly replied. He 
called to them to come towards him, as he 


THE MINER’S DAUGHTERS. 


207 


•was on the track, and was afraid to quit it 
again. They endeavored to do this ; but the 
darkness was now redoubled, and the wind 
and rain became more furious than ever. 
The two sisters were soon bewildered 
amongst the bushes, and David, who kept 
calling to them at intervals to direct their 
course towards him soon heard them crying 
bitterly. At this, he forgot the necessity of 
keeping the track, and darting towards 
them, soon found them by continuing to 
call to them, and took their hands to lead 
them to the track. But they were now 
drenched through with the rain, and shivered 
with cold and fear. David, with a stout 
heart, endeavored to cheer them. He told 
them the track was close by, and that they 
would soon be at home. But though the 
track was not ten yards off, somehow they 
did not find it. Bushes and projecting rocks 
turned them out of their course ; and owing 
to the confusion caused by the wind, the 
darkness, and their terror, they searched in 
vain for the track. Sometimes they thought 
they had found it, and went on a few paces, 
only to stumble over loose stones, or get 
entangled in the bushes. 

It was now absolutely becoming night. 
Their terrors increased greatly. They 
shouted and cried aloud, in the hope of 
making their parents hear them. They felt 
sure that both father and mother must be 
come home ; and as sure that they would be 
hunting for them. But they did not reflect 
that their parents could not tell in what 
direction they had gone. Both father and 
mother were come home, and the mother 
had instantly rushed out to try to find them, 
on perceiving that they were not in the 
house. She had hurried to and fro, and 
called — not at first supposing they would 
be far. But when she heard nothing of 
them, she ran in, and begged of her husband 
to join in the search. But at first David 
Dunster would do nothing. He was angry 
at them for going away from the house, and 
said he was too tired to go on a wild goose 
chase through the plantations after them. 
“ They are i’ th’ plantations,” said he : 
“ they are sheltering there somewhere. Let 
them alone, and they’ll come home, with a 
good long tail behind them.” 

With this piece of a child’s song of sheep, 
David sat down to his supper, and Betty 
Dunster hurried up the valley, shouting — 
“ Children, where are you ? David I Jane 1 
Nancy! where are you?” 

When she heard nothing of them, she 
hurried still more wildly up the hill towards 
the village. When she arrived there — the 
distance of a mile — she inquired from house 
to house, but no one had seen anything of . 
them. It was clear they had not been in 
that direction. An alarm was thus created 
in the village ; and several young men set 
out to join Mrs. Dunster in the quest. They 


again descended the valley towards Dun- 
ster’s house, shouting every now and then, 
and listening. The night was pitch dark 
and the rain fell heavily ; but the wind had 
considerably abated, and once they thought 
they heard a faint cry in answer to their 
call, far down the valley. They were right ; 
the children had heard the shouting, and 
had replied to it. But they were far off. 
The young men shouted again, but there 
was no answer ; and after shouting once 
more without success, they hastened on. 
When they reached David Dunster’s house, 
they found the door open, and no one within. 
They knew that Davrd had set off in quest 
of the children himself, and they determined 
to descend the valley. The distracted mo- 
ther went with them, crying silently to her- 
self, and praying inwardly, and every now 
and then trying to shout. But the young 
men raised their strong voices above hers, 
and made the cliffs echo with their appeals. 

Anon a voice answered them down the 
valley. They ran on as well as the dark- 
ness would let them, and soon found that it 
was David Dunster, who had been in the 
plantations on the other side of the valley ; 
but hearing nothing of the lost children, 
now joined them. He said he had heard 
the cry from the hill-side farther down, that 
answered to their shouts ; and he was sure 
that it was his boy David’s voice. But he 
had shouted again, and there had been no 
answer but a wild scream as of terror, that 
made his blood run cold. 

“ 0 God !” exclaimed the distracted mo- 
ther, “ what can it be ? David ! David ! 
Jane! Nancy !” 

There was no answer. The young men 
bade Betty Dunster to contain herself, and 
they would find the children before they 
went home again. All held on down the 
valley, and in the direction whence the 
voice came. Many times did the young 
men and the now strongly agitated father 
shout and listen. At length they seemed 
to hear voices of weeping and moaning. 
They listened — they were sure they heard 
a lamenting — it could only be the children. 
But why then did they not ansAver? On 
struggled the men, and Mrs. Dunster fol- 
lowed wildly after. Now, again, they stood 
and shouted, and a kind of terrified scream 
followed the shout. 

“ God in heaven !” exclaimed the mother; 
“ what is it ? There is something dreadful. 
My children ! my children ! where are you ?” 

“ Be silent, pray do, Mrs. Dunster,” said 
one of the young men, “ or we cannot catch 
the sounds so as to follow them.” They 
again listened, and the wailings of the 
children were plainly heard. The whole 
party pushed forward over stock and stone 
up the hill. They called again, and there 
was a cry of “ Here ! here ! fayther ! mother I 
where are you ?” 


208 


DICKEXS^ NEW STORIES. 


In a few momerts more the whole party 
had reached the children, who stood 
drenched with rain, and trembling violently, 
under a cliff that gave no shelter, but was 
exposed especially to the wind and rain. 

0 Christ I My children \” cried the mo- 
ther wildly, struggling forwards and clasp- 
ing one in her arras. “ Nancy ! Jane ! But 
where is David ? David ! David ! Oh, where 
is David ? Where is your brother 

The whole party was startled at not see- 
ing the boy, and joined in a simultaneous 
“ Where is he? Where is your brother?’^ 

The two children only wept and trem- 
bled more violently, and burst into loud 
crying. 

“ Silence I” shouted the father. “ Where 
is David, I tell ye ? Is he lost ? David, lad, 
where ar ta V’ 

All listened, but there was no answer but 
the renewed crying of the two girls. 

“Where is the lad, then thundered 
forth the father with a terrible oath. 

The two terrified children cried, “ Oh, 
down there 1 down there 

“ Down where ? Oh God V’ exclaimed 
one of the young men ; “ why it's a preci- 
pice ! Down there 

At this dreadful intelligence the mother 
gave a wild shriek, and fell senseless on the 
ground. The young men caught her, and 
dragged her back from the edge of the pre- 
cipice. The father in the same moment, 
furious at what he heard, seized the younger 
child that happened to be near him, and 
shaking it violently, swore he would fling it 
down after the lad. 

lie was angry with the poor children, as 
if they had caused the destruction of his 
boy. The young men seized him, and bade 
him think what he was about ; but the man 
believing his boy had fallen down the pre- 
cipice, w'as like a madman. He kicked at 
his wife as she lay on the ground, as if she 
were guilty of this calamity by leaving the 
children at home. He was furious against 
the poor girls, as if they had led their bro- 
ther into danger. In his violent rage he 
was a perfect maniac, and the young men, 
pushing him away, cried shame on him. In 
a while, the desperate man, torn by a hur- 
ricane of passion, sate himself down on a 
crag, and burst into a tempest of tears, and 
struck his head violently with his clenched 
fists, and cursed himself and everybody. It 
was a dreadful scene. 

Meantime, some of the young men had 
gone down below the precipice on which 
the children had stood, and, feeling amongst 
tlie loose stones, had found the body of poor 
little David. He was truly dead ! 

When he had heard the shout of his 
father, or of the young men, he had given 
one loud shout in answer, and saying, 
“ Come on ! never fear now V* sprang for- 
ward, and was over the precipice in the 


dark, and flew’ down and was dashed to 
pieces. His sisters heard a rush, a faint 
shriek, and suddenly stopping, escaped the 
destruction that poor David had found. 


CHAPTER II. 

MILL LIFE 

We must pass over the painful and dread- 
ful particulars of that night, and of a long 
time to come ; the maniacal rage of the 
father, the shattered heart and feelings of 
the mother, the dreadful state of the two re- 
maining children, to whom their brother 
was one of the most precious objects in a 
world which, like theirs, contained so few. 
One moment to have seen him full of life, 
and fun, and bravado, and almost the next a 
lifeless and battered corpse, was something 
too strange and terrible to be soon sur- 
mounted. But this was wofully aggravated 
by the cruel anger of their father, who con- 
tinued to regard them as guilty of the death 
of his favorite boy. He seemed to take no 
pleasure in them. He never spoke to them 
but to scold them. He drank more deeply 
than ever, and came home latfer ; and when 
there was sullen and morose. When their 
mother, who suffered severely, but still 
plodded on with all her duties, said, “ David, 
they are thy children too he would reply 
savagely, “ Hod thy tongue ! What’s a pack 
o’ wenches to ray lad ?” 

What tended to render the miner more 
hard towards the two girls was a circum- 
stance which would have awakened a better 
feeling in a softer father’s heart. Nancy, 
the younger 'girl, since the dreadful catas- 
trophe, had seemed to grow gradually dull 
and defective in her intellect ; she had a slow 
and somewhat idiotic air and manner. Her 
mother perceived it, and was struck with 
consternation by it. She tried to rouse her, 
but in vain. She could not -perform her 
ordinary reading and spelling lessons. She 
seemed to have forgotten what was already 
learned. She appeared to have a difiiculty 
in moving her legs, and carried her hands 
as if she had suffered a partial paralysis. 
Jane, her sister, was dreadfully distressed 
at it, and she and her mother wept many 
bitter tears over her. One day, in the fol- 
lowing spring, they took her with them to 
Ashford, and consulted the doctor there. 
On examining her, and hearing fully what 
had taken place at the time of the brother’s 
death — the fact of which he well knew, for 
it, of course, was known to the whole coun- 
try round — he shook his head, and said ho 
was afraid they must make up their minds 
to a sad case ; that the terrors of that night 
had affected her brain, and that, through it, 
the whole nervous system had suffered, and 


209 


THE MINER’S DAUGHTERS. 


was continuing to suffer the most melancholy 
effects. The only thing, he thought, in her 
favor was her youth; and added, that it 
might have a good effect if they could leave 
the place where she had undergone such a 
terrible shock. But whether they did or 
not, kindness and soothing attentions to her 
would do more than anything else. 

Mrs. Dunster and little Jane returned 
home with heavy hearts. The doctor’s 
opinion had only confirmed their fears ; for 
Jane, though but a child, had quickness 
and affection for her sister enough to make 
her comprehend the awful nature of poor 
Nancy’s condition. Mrs. Dunster told her 
husband the doctor’s words, for she thought 
they would awaken some tenderness in him 
towards the unfortunate child. But he 
said, “ That’s just what I expected. Hou’ll 

S ow soft, and then who’s to maintain her ? 
ou mun goo to the workhouse.” 

With that he took his maundrel and went 
off to his work. Instead of softening his 
nature, this intelligence seemed only to 
harden and brutalise it. He drank now 
more and more. But all that summer the 
mother and Jane did all that they could 
think of to restore the health and mind of 
poor Nancy. Every morning, when the 
father was gone to work, Jane went to a 
spring up in the opposite wood, famed for 
the coldness and sweetness of its waters. 
On this account the proprietors of the mills 
at Cressbrook had put down a large trough 
there under the spreading trees, and the 
people fetched the water even from the vil- 
lage. Hence Jane brought, at many jour- 
neys, this cold, delicious water to bathe her 
sister in ; they then rubbed her warm with 
cloths, and gave her new milk for her break- 
fast. Her lessons were not left off, lest the 
mind should sink into fatuity, but were 
made as easy as possible. Jane continued 
to talk to her, and laugh with her, as if no- 
thing was amiss, though she did it with a 
heavy heart, and she engaged her to weed 
and hoe with her in their little garden. She 
did not dare to lead her far out into the val- 
ley, lest it might excite her memory of the 
past fearful time, but she gathered her 
flowers, and continued to play with her at 
all their accustomed sports, of building 
houses with pieces of pots and stones, and 
imagining gardens and parks. The anxious 
mother, when some weeks were gone by, 
fancied that there was really some improve- 
ment. The cold bathing seemed to have 
strengthened the system : the poor child 
walked, and bore herself with more freedom 
and firmness. She became ardently fond of 
being with her sister, and attentive to her 
directions. But there was a dull cloud over 
her intellect, and a vacancy in her eyes and 
features. She was quiet, easily pleased, but 
seemed to have little volition of her own. 
Idrs. Dunster thought that if they could but 
( 14 ) 


get her away from that spot, it might rouse 
her mind from its sleep. But perhaps the 
sleep was better than the awaking might be ; 
however, the removal came, though in a 
more awful way than was looked for. The 
miner, who had continued to drink more and 
more, and seemed to have almost estranged 
himself from his home, staying away in his 
drinking bouts for a week or more together, 
was one day blasting a rock in the mine, 
and being half-stupitied with beer, did not 
take care to get out of the way of the ex 
plosion, was struck with a piece of the flying 
stone, and killed on the spot. 

The poor widow and her children were 
now obliged to remove from under Ward- 
low-Cop. The place had been a sad one to 
her : the death of her husband, though he 
had been latterly far from a good one, and 
had left her with the children in deep pov- 
erty, was a fresh source of severe grief to 
her. Her religious mind was struck down 
with a weight of melancholy by the reflec- 
tion of the life he had led, and the sudden 
way in which he had been summoned into 
eternity. When she looked forward what a 
prospect was there for her children I it was 
impossible for her to maintain them from 
her small earnings, and as to Nancy, would 
she ever be able to earn her own bread, and 
protect herself in the world ? 

It was amid such reflections that Mrs. 
Dunster quitted this deep, solitary, and, to 
her, fatal valley, and took up her abode in 
the village of Cressbrook. Here she had 
one small room, and by her own labors, 
and some aid from the parish, she manag^ed 
to support herself and the children. For 
seven years she continued her laborious 
life, assisted by the labor of the two 
daughters, who also seamed stockings, and 
in the evenings were instructed by her. 
Her girls were now thirteen and fifteen 
years of age: Jane was a tall and very 
pretty girl of her years ; she was active, 
industrious, and sweet-tempered: her con- 
stant affection for poor Nancy was some- 
thing as admirable as it was singular. 
Nancy had now confirmed good health, but 
it had affected her mother to perceive that, 
since the catastrophe of her brother’s death, 
and the cruel treatment of her father at 
that time, she had never grown in any de- 
gree as she ought; she was short, stout, 
and of a pale and very plain countenance 
It could not be now said that she was de- 
ficient in mind, but she was slow in its 
operations. She displayed, indeed, a more 
than ordinary depth of reflection, and a 
shrewdness of observation, but the evi- 
dences of this came forth in a very quiet 
way, and were observable only to her mo- 
ther and sister. To all besides she was 
extremely reserved: she was timid to ex- 
cess, and shrunk from public notice into 
the society of her mother and sister. ' There 


210 DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


was a feeling abroad in the neighborhood 
that she was “ not quite right,” but the few 
who were more discerning, shook their 
heads, and observed, “Right she was not, 
poor thing, but it was not want of sense ; 
she had more of that than most.” 

And such was the opinion of her mother 
and sister. They perceived that Nancy had 
received a shock of which she must bear 
the effects through life. Circumstances 
might bring her feeble but sensitive nerves 
much misery. She required to be guarded 
and sheltered from the rudeness of the 
world, and the mother trembled to think 
how much she might be exposed to them. 
But in everything that related to sound 
ludgment, they knew that she surpassed 
not only them, but any of their acquaint- 
ance. if any difficulty had to be decided, 
it was Nancy who pondered on it, and per- 
haps at some moment when least expected, 
pronounced an opinion that might be taken 
as confidently as an oracle. 

The affection of the two sisters was some- 
thing beyond the ties of this world. Jane 
had watched and attended to her from the 
time of her constitutional injury with a 
luve that never seemed to know a moment’^ 
weariness or change ; and the affection 
which Nancy evinced for her was equally 
intense and affecting. She seemed to hang 
on her society for h^er very life. Jane felt 
this, and vowed that they would never quit 
one another. The mother sighed. How 
many things, she thought might tear asun- 
der that beautiful resolve. 

But now they were of an age to obtain 
work in the mill. Indeed, Jane could have 
had employment there long before, but she 
would not quit her sister till she could go 
with her— and now there they went. The 
proprietor, who knew the case familiarly, 
so ordered it that the two sisters should 
work near each other ; and that poor Nancy 
should be as little exposed to the rudeness 
of the work-people as possible. But at 
first so slow and awkward were Nancy’s 
endeavors, and such an effect had it on her 
frame that it was feared she must give it 
up. _ This would have been a terrible ca- 
lamity; and the tears of the two sisters, 
and the benevolence of the employer, ena- 
bled Nancy to pass through this severe ordeal. 
In a while she acquired sufficient dexterity, 
and thenceforward went through her work 
with great accuracy and perseverance. As 
far as any intercourse with the work-people 
was concerned, she might be said to be 
dumb. ^ Scarcely ever did she exchange a 
word with any one, but she returned kind 
nods and smiles : and every morning and 
evening and at dinner-time, the two sisters 
might be seen going to and fro, side by 
side, — Jane often talking with some of 
them ; the little, odd-looking sister walking 
silent and listening. 


Five more years and Jane was a young 
woman. Amid her companions, who were 
few of them above the middle size, she had 
a tall and striking appearance. Her father 
had been a remarkably tall and strong man, 
and she possessed something of his stature, 
though none of his irritable disposition. 
She was extremely pretty, of a blooming 
fresh complexion, and graceful form. She 
was remarkable for the sweetness of her 
expression, which was the index of her 
disposition. By her side still went that 
odd, broad-built, but still pale and little 
sister. Jane was extremely admired by the 
young men of the neighborhood, and had 
already many offers, but she listened to 
none. “ Where I go must Nancy go,” she 
said to herself, “and of whom can I be 
sure ?” 

Of Nancy no one took notice. Her pale, 
somewhat large features, her thoughtful 
silent look, and her short, stout figure, 
gave you an idea of a dwarf, though she 
could not strictly be called one. None could 
think of Nancy as a wife, — where Jane 
went she must go ; the two clung together 
with one heart and soul. The blow which 
deprived them of their brother seemed to 
bind them inseparably together. 

Mrs. Dunster, besides her seaming, at 
which, in truth, she earned a miserable 
sum, had now for some years been the post- 
woman from the village to the Bull’s Head, 
where the mail, going on to Tideswell, left 
the letter-bag. Thither and back, wet or dry, 
summer or winter, she went every day, the 
year round. AYith her earnings, and those of 
the girls, she kept a neat, small cottage ; and 
the world went well with them, as the world 
goes on the average with the poor. Cramps 
and rheumatisms she began to feel sensibly 
from so much exposure to rain and cold ; 
but the never-varying and firm affection of 
her two children was a balm in her cup which 
made her contented with everything else. 

When Jane was about two-and-twenty, 
poor Mrs. Dunster, seized with rheumatic 
fever, died. On her death-bed she said to 
Jane, “ Thou will never desert poor Nancy ; 
and that’s my comfort. God has been good 
to me. After all my trouble, he has given 
me this faith, that come weal come woe, so 
long as thou has a home, Nancy will 
never want one. God bless thee for it ! God 
bless you both ; and he will bless you ?” 
So saying, Betty Dunster breathed her last. 

The events immediately following her 
death did not seem to bear out her dying 
faith ; for the two poor girls were obliged 
to give up their cottage. There was a want 
of cottages. Not half of the work-people 
could be entertained in this village , they 
went to and fro tor many miles Jane and 
Nancy were now obliged to do the same. 
Their cottage was wanted for an overlooker, 
and they removed to Tideswell, three miles 


THE MINER’S DxVUGHTERS. 


211 


off. They had thus six miles a day to walk, 
besides standing at their w'ork ; but they 
were young, and had companions. In 
Tide'swell they were more cheerful. They 
had a snug little cottage ; were near a 
meeting ; and found friends. They did not 
complain. Here, again, Jane Punster at- 
tracted great attention, and a young, thriving 
grocer paid his addresses to her. It was an 
offer that made Jane take time to reflect. 
Every one said it was an opportunity t to 
be neglected ; but Jane weighed in her 
mind, “ Will he keep faith in my compact 
with Nancy ?” Though her admirer made 
every vow on the subject, Jane paused and 
determined to take the opinion of Nancy. 
Nancy thought for a day, and then said, 
“ Dearest sister, I don’t feel easy ; I fear 
that from some cause it would not do in the 
end.” 

Jane from that moment gave up the idea 
of the connection. There might be those 
who would suspect Nancy of a selfish bias 
in the advice she gave ; but Jane knew that 
no such feeling influenced her pure soul. 
For one long year the two sisters traversed 
the hills between Cressbrook and Tideswell. 
But they had companions, and it was plea- 
sant in the summer months. But winter 
came, and then it was a severe trial. To 
rise in the dark, and traverse those wild and 
bleak hills ; to go through snow and drizzle, 
and face the sharpest winds in winter, was no 
trifling matter. Before winter was over, the 
two young women began seriously to revolve 
the chances of a nearer residence, or a change 
of employ. There were no few who blamed 
Jane excessively for the folly of refusing the 
last good offer. There were even more than 
one who, in the hearing of Nancy, blamed 
her. Nancy was thoughtful, agitated, and 
wept. “ If I can, dear sister,” she said, 
“ have advised you to your injury, how shall 
I forgive myself? What shall become of 
me?” 

But Jane clasped her sister to her heart, 
and said, “ No ! no ! dearest sister, you are 
not to blame. I feel you are right ; let us 
wait, and we shall see I” 


CHAPTER III. 

THE COURTSHIP AND ANOTHER SHIP, 

One evening, as the two sisters were 
hastening along the road through the woods 
on their way homewards, a young farmer 
drove up in his spring-cart, cast a look at 
them, stopped, and said ; “ Young women, if 
you are going my way, I shall be glad of your 
company. You are quite welcome to ride.’' 

The sisters looked at each other. “ Dunna 
be afeerd,” said the young farmer ; “ my 
name’s James Cheshire. I’m well known 


in these jjarts ; you may trust yersens wi' 
me, if it’s agreeable.” 

To James’s surprise, Nancy said, “ No 
sir, we are not afraid ; we are much obliged 
to you.” 

The young farmer helped them up into the 
cart, and away they drove. 

“ I’m afraid we shall crowd you,” said 
Jane 

“ Not a bit of it,” replied the young far- 
mer. “ There’s room for three bigger no^r 
us on this seat, and I’m no ways tedious.” 

The sisters saw nothing odd in his use of 
the word “ tedious,” as strangers would have 
done ; they knew it merely meant “ not at all 
particular.” They were soon in active talk. 
As he had told them who he was, he asked 
them in their turn if they worked at the 
mills there. They replied in the affirmative, 
and the young man said : — 

“ I thought so. I’ve seen you sometimes 
going along together. I noticed you because 
you seemed so sisterly like, and you are sis- 
ters I reckon.” 

They said “ Yes.” 

“ I’ve a good spanking horse, you see,” 
said James Cheshire. “ I shall get over the 
ground rayther faster, nor you done a-foot, 
eh ? My word, though, it must be nation 
cold on these bleak hills i’ winter.” 

The sisters assented, and thanked the 
young farmer for taking them up. 

” We are rather late,” said they, “ for we 
looked in on a friend, and the rest of the 
mill-hands were gone on.” 

“Well,” said the young farmer, “never 
mind that. I fancy Bess, my mare here, can 
go a little faster nor they can. We shall 
very likely be at Tidser as soon as they are.” 

“ But you are not going to Tidser,” said 
Jane, “your farm is just before us there.” 

“ Yay, I’m going to Tidser though. I’ve 
a bit of business to do there before I go 
horn.” 

On drove the farmer at what he called a 
spanking rate ; presently they saw the young 
mill-people on the road before them. 

“ There are your companions,” said James 
Cheshire, “we shall cut past them like a 
flash of lightning.” 

“Oh,” exclaimed Jane Dunster, “what 
will they say at seeing us riding here ?” and 
she blushed brightly. 

“ Say ?” said the young farmer, smiling, 
“ never mind what they’ll say ; depend upon 
it, they’d like to be here theirsens.’’ 

James Cheshire cracked his whip. The 
horse flew along. The party of the young 
mill-hands turned round, and on seeing 
Jane and Nancy in the cart, uttered excla- 
mations of surprise. 

“ My word, though !” said Mary Smedley, 
a fresh buxom lass, somewhat inclined to 
stoutness. 

“Well, if ever!” cried smart little Han- 
nah Bowyer. 


212 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


Nay, then, what next?” said Tetty Wil- 
ton, a tall, thin girl of very good looks. 

The two sisters nodded and smiled to 
their companions; Jane still blushing rosily, 
but Nancy sitting as pale and as gravely as 
if they were going on some solemn business. 

The only notice the farmer took was to 
turn with a broad smiling face, and shout 
to them, “ Wouldn’t you like to be here too ?” 

“ Ay, take us up,” shouted a number of 
voices together ; but the farmer cracked his 
whip, and giving them a nod and a dozen 
smiles in one, said, “ I can’t stay. Ask the 
next farmer that comes up.” 

With this they drove on ; the young far- 
mer very merry and full of talk. They were 
soon by the side of his farm. “ There’s a 
flock of sheep on the turnips there,” he said, 
proudly ; “ they’re not to be beaten on this 
side Ashbourne. And there are some black 
oxen, going for the night to the strawyard. 
Jolly fellows, those — eh ? But I reckon you 
don’t understand much of farming stock.” 

“No,” said Jane, and was again sur- 
prised at Nancy adding, “ I wish we did. I 
think a farmer’s life must be the very hap- 
piest of any.” 

“ You think so ?” said the farmer, turn- 
ing and looking at her earnestly, and evi- 
dently with some wonder. “ You are right,” 
said he. “ You little ones are knowing ones 
You are right ; it’s the life for a king.” 

They were at the village. “ Pray stop,” 
said Jane, “and let us get down, I would 
not for the world go up to the village thus. 
It would make such a talk !” 

“ Talk, who cares for talk ?” said the far- 
mer ; “ wont the youngsters we left on the 
road talk ?” 

“ Quite enough,” said Jane. 

“And are you afraid of talk?” said the 
farmer to Nancy. 

“ I’m not afraid of it when I don’t pro- 
voke it willfully,” said Nancy ; “ but we are 
poor girls, and can’t afford to lose even the 
good word of our acquaintance. You’ve 
been very kind in taking us up on the road, 
but to drive us to our door would cause such 
wonder as would perhaps make us wish we 
had not been obliged to you.” 

“ Blame me, if you ar’n’t right again I” 
said the farmer, thoughtfully. “ These are 
scandal-loving times, and th’ neebors might 
plague you. That’s a deep head of yourn, 
though, — Nancy, I think your sister caw’d 
you. Well, here I stop then.” 

He jumped down and helped them out. 

“ If you will drive on first,” said Jane, 
“ we will walk on after, and we are greatly 
obliged to you.” 

“ Nay,” said the young man, “ I shall 
turn again here.” 

“ But you’ve business.” 

“ Oh! my business was to drive you here 
^that’s all.” 

James Cheshire was mounting his cart, 


when Nancy stepped up, and said : “ Excuse 
me. Sir, but you’ll meet the mill-people on 
your return, and it will make them talk all 
the more as you have driven us past your 
farm. Have you no business that you can 
do in Tidser, Sir ?” 

“ Gad I but thou’rt right again ! Ay, I’ll 
go on !” and with a crack of his whip, and 
a “ Good night I” he whirled into the village 
before them. 

No sooner was he gone than Nancy, 
pressing her sister’s arm to her side, said : 
“ There’s the right man at last, dear Jane.” 

“ What ?” said Jane, yet blushing deeply 
at the same time, and her heart beating 
quicker against her side. “ What ever are 
you talking of, Nancy? That young farmer 
fall in love with a mill-girl ?” 

“He’s done it,” said Nancy; “ I see it in 
him. I feel it in him. And I feel, too, that 
he is true and staunch as steel.” 

Jane was silent. They walked on in si- 
lence. Jane’s own heart responded to what 
Nancy had said ; she thought again and 
again on what he said. “ I have seen you 
sometimes “ I noticed you because you 
seemed so sisterly.” “ He must have a 
good heart,” thought Jane ; “ but then he 
can never think of a poor mill-girl like me.” 

The next morning they had to undergo 
plenty of raillery from their companions. 
We will pass that over. For several days, 
as they passed to and fro, they saw nothing 
of the young farmer. But one evening, as 
they were again alone, having stayed at the 
same acquaintance’s as before, the young 
farmer popped his head over a stone wall 
and said, “ Good evening to you, young 
women.” He was soon over the wall, and 
walked on with them to the end of the town. 
On the Sunday at the chapel Jane saw 
Nancy’s grave face fixed on some object 
steadily, and, looking in the same direction, 
was startled to see James Cheshire. Again 
her heart beat pit-a-pat, and she thought 
“ Can he be really thinking of me !” 

The moment chapel was over, James 
Cheshire was gone, stopping to speak to no 
one. Nancy again pressed the arm of Jane 
to her side as they walked home, and said, 
— I was not wrong.” Jane only replied by 
returning her affectionate pressure. 

Some days after, as Nancy Dempster was 
coming out of a shop in the evening after 
their return home from the mill, James Che- 
shire suddenly put his hand on her shoulder, 
and on her turning shook her hand cordially, 
and said, “ Come along with me a bit. I 
must have a little talk with you.” 

Nancy consented without remark or hesi- 
tation. James Cheshire walked on quickly 
till they came near the fine old church which 
strikes travellers as so superior to the place 
in which it is located ; when he slackened 
his pace, and taking Nancy’s hand, began 
in a most friendly manner to tell her how 


21? 


THE MINER’S DAUGHTERS. 


much he liked her and her sister. That, to 
make a short matter of it, as was his way, 
he had made up his mind that the woman 
of all others in the world that would suit 
him for a wife was her sister. “ But before 
I said so to her, I thought I would say so to 
you, Nancy, for you are so sensible. I’m 
sure you will say what is best for us all.” 

Nancy manifested no surprise, but said 
calmly: “ You are a well-to-do farmer, Mr. 
Cheshire. You have friends of property ; 
my sister, and — ” 

“Ay, and a mill-girl; I know all that. 
I’ve thought it all over, and so far you are 
right again, my little one. But just hear 
what I’ve got to say. I’m no fool, though 
I say it. I’ve an eye in my head and a head 
on my shoulders, eh ?” 

Nancy smiled. 

“ Well now, it’s not any mill-girl ; mind 
you, it’s not any mill-girl ; no, nor perhaps 
another in the kingdom, that would do for 
me. I don’t think mill-girls are in the main 
cut out for farmers’ wives, any more than 
farmers’ wives are fit for mill-girls ; but you 
see, I’ve got a notion that your sister is not 
only a very farrautly lass, but that she’s one 
that has particular good sense, though not 
so deep as you, Nancy, neither. Well, I’ve 
a notion that she can turn her hand to any- 
thing, and that she’s a heart to do it, when 
it’s a duty. Isn’t that so, eh ? And if it is 
so, then Jane Dunster’s the lass for me ; 
that is, if it’s quite agreeable.” 

Nancy pressed James Cheshire’s hand, 
and said, “ You are very kind.” 

“ Not a bit of it,” said James. 

“ Well,” continued Nancy ; ■ ‘ but I would 
have you to consider what your friends will 
say; and whether you will not be made un- 
happy by them.” 

“ Why, as for that,” said James Cheshire, 
interrupting her, “ mark me. Miss Dunster. 
I don’t ask my friends for anything. I can 
farm my own farm ; buy my own cattle ; 
drive my spring cart, without any advice or 
assistance of theirs ; and therefore I don’t 
think I shall ask their advice in the matter 
of a wife, eh ? No, no, on that score I’m 
made up. My name’s independent, and at 
a word, the only living thing I mean to ask 
advice of is yourself. If you, Miss Dunster, 
approve of the match, it’s settled, as far as 
I’m concerned.” 

“Then so far,” said Nancy, “as you and 
my sister are concerned, without reference 
to worldly circumstances — I approve it with 
all my heart. I believe you to be as good 
and honest as I know my sister to be. Oh I 
Mr. Cheshire ! she is one of ten thousand.” 

“ Well, I was sure of it,” said the young 
farmer; “and so now you must tell your 
sister all about it ; and if all’s right, chalk 
me a white chalk inside of my gate as you 
go past i’ th’ morning, and to-morrow even- 
ing ril/jome up and see you.” 


Here the two parted with a cordial shake 
of the hand. The novel signal of an ac- 
cepted love was duly discovered by James 
Cheshire on his gate-post, when he issued 
forth at day-break, and that evening he was 
sitting at tea with Jane and Nancy in the 
little cottage, having brought in his cart a 
basket of eggs, apples, fresh butter, and a 
pile of the richest pikelets (crumpets) coun- 
try pikelets, very different to town made 
ones, for tea. 

We need not follow out the courtship of 
James Cheshire and Jane Dunster. It was 
cordial and happy. James insisted that 
both the sisters should give immediate notice 
to quit the mill-work, to spare themselves 
the cold and severe walks which the winter 
now occasioned them. The sisters had im- 
proved their education in their evenings. 
They were far better read and informed than 
most farmers’ daughters. They had been, 
since they came to Tideswell, teachers in 
the Sunday-school. There was compara- 
tively little to be learned in the farm-house 
for the wife in winter, and James Cheshire 
therefore proposed to the sisters to go 
for three months to Manchester into a 
wholesale house, to learn as much as they 
could of the plain sewing and cutting 
out of household linen. The person in 
question made up all sorts of household 
linen, sheets, pillow-cases, shirts, and other 
things ; in fact, a great variety of articles. 
Through an old acquaintance he got them 
introduced there, avowedly to prepare them 
for housekeeping. It was a sensible step, 
and answered well. At spring, to cut short 
opposition from his own relatives, which 
began to show itself, for these things did 
not fail to be talked of, James Cheshire got 
a license, and proceeding to Manchester, 
was then and there married, and came home 
with his wife and sister. 

The talk and gossip which this wedding 
made all round the country, was no little, but 
the parties themselves were well satisfied with 
their mutual choice, and were happy. As the 
spring advanced, the duties of the household 
grew upon Mrs. Cheshire. She had to learn 
the art of cheese-making, butter-making, of 
all that relates to poultry, calves, and house- 
hold management. But in these matters she 
had the aid of an old servant who had done 
all this for Mr. Cheshire, since he began farm- 
ing. She took a great liking to her mistress, 
and showed her with hearty good-will how 
everything was done; and as Jane took a 
deep interest in it, she rapidly made herself 
mistress of the management of the house, as 
well as of the house itself. She did not 
disdain, herself, to take a hand at the churn, 
that she might be familiar with the whole 
process of butter-making, and all the signs 
by which the process is conducted to a suc- 
cessful issue. It was soon seen that no 
farmer’s wife could produce a firmer, fresher. 


214 


DICKENS^ NEW STORIES. 


sweeter pound of butter. It was neither 
swelled by too hasty churning, nor spoiled, 
as is too often the case, by the butter-milk 
or by water being left in it, for want of well 
kneading and pressing. It was deliciously 
sweet, because the cream was carefully put 
in the cleanest vessels and well attended to. 
Mrs. Cheshire, too, might daily be seen 
kneeling by the side of the cheese-pan, sepa- 
rating the curd, taking off the whey, filling 
the cheese-vat with the curd, and putting 
the cheese herself into press. Her cheese- 
chamber displayed as fine a set of well- 
salted, well-colored, well-turned and regular 
cheeses as ever issued from that or any 
other farm-house. 

James Cheshire was proud of his wife; 
and Jane herself found a most excellent 
helper in Nancy. Nancy took particularly to 
housekeeping ; saw that all the rooms were 
exquisitely clean ; that everything was in 
nice repair ; that not only the master and 
mistress, but the servants, had their food 
prepared in a wholesome and attractive 
manner. The eggs she stored up ; and as 
fruit came into season, had it collected for 
market, and for a judicious household use. 
She made the tea and coffee morning and 
evening, and did everything but preside at 
the table. There was not a farm-house for 
twenty miles round that wore an air of so 
much brightness and evident good manage- 
ment as that of James Cheshire. For 
Nancy, from the first moment of their ac- 
qaintance, he had conceived a most pro- 
found respect. In all cases that required 
counsel, though he consulted freely with 
his wife, he would never decide till they 
had had Nancy's opinion and sanction. 

And James Cheshire prospered. But, 
spite of this, he did not escape the perse- 
cution from his relations that Nancy had 
foreseen, On all hands he found coldness. 
None of them called on him. They felt 
scandalized at his evening himself, as they 
called it, to a mill-girl. He was taunted 
when they met at market, with having been 
caught with a pretty face ; and told that 
they thought he had more sense than to 
marry a dressed doll with a witch by her 
side. 

At first James Cheshire replied with a 
careless waggery, “ The pretty face makes 
capital butter, though, eh ! The dressed 
doll turns out a tolerable dairy, eh I Bet- 
ter," added James, “ than a good many 
can, that I know, who have neither pretty 
faces nor have much taste in dressing to 
crack of." 

The allusion to Nancy's dwarfish plain- 
ness was what peculiarly provoked James 
Cheshire. He might have laughed at the 
criticisms on his wife, though the envious 
neighbor's wives did say that it Avas the 
old servant and not Mrs. Cheshire who pro- 
duced suoh fine butter and cheese ; for i 


wherever she appeared, spite of envy and 
detraction, her lovely person and quiet good 
sense, and the growing rumor of her good 
management, did not fail to produce a due 
impression. And James had prepared to 
laugh it off ; but it would not do. He found 
himself getting every now then angry and 
unsettled by it. A coarse jest on Nancy at 
any time threw him into a despe'rate fit of 
indignation. The more the superior merit 
of his wife was known, the more seemed to 
increase the envy and venom of some of hia 
relatives. He saw, too, that it had an effect 
on his wife. She was often sad, and some- 
times in tears. 

One day, when this occurred, James 
Cheshire said, as they sat at tea, “ I've 
made up my mind. Peace in this life is a 
jewel. Better is a dinner of herbs with 
peace, than a stalled ox with strife. Well 
now, I'm determined to have peace. Peace 
and luv," said he, looking affectionately at 
his wife and Nancy, “ peace and luv, by 
God's blessing, have settled down on this 
house ; but there are stings here and stings 
there when we go out of doors. We must 
not only have peace and luv in the house, 
but peace all round it. So I've made up 
my mind. I'm for America !" 

“ For America !" exclaimed Jane. “ Sure- 
ly you cannot be in earnest." 

“ I never was more in earnest in my life," 
said James Cheshire. " It is true I do very 
well on this farm here, though it's a cow- 
dish situation ; but from all I can learn, I 
can do much better in America. I can 
there farm a much better farm of my own. 
We can have a much finer climate than this 
Peak country, and our countrymen still 
about us. Now, I want to know what makes 
a man's native land pleasant to him ? — the 
kindness of his relations and friends. But 
then, if a man's relations are not kind ? — 
if they get a conceit into them, that because 
they are relations they are to choose a man's 
wife for him, and sting him and snort at 
him because he has a will of his own ? — 
\vhy, then I say, God send a good big her- 
ring-pool between me and such relations ! 
My relations, by way of showing their 
natural affection, spit spite and bitterness. 
You, dear wife and sister, have none of 
yourn to spite you. In the house we have 
peace and luv. Let us take the peace and 
luv, and leave the bitterness behind." 

There was a deep silence. 

“ It is a serious proposal," at length said 
Jane, with tears in her eyes. 

“ What says Nancy?" asked James. 

“ It is a serious proposal," said Nancy, 
“ but it is good. I feel it so." 

There was another deep silence; and 
James Cheshire said, “ Then it is decided." 

“ Think of it," said Jane, earnestly, — 
“ think well of it." 

i “ I have thought of it long and well, my 


THE MINER’S DAUGHTERS. 


215 


dear. There are some of these chaps that 
call me relation that I shall not keep my 
hands off, if I stay amongst them, — and I fain 
would. But for the present I will say no 
more ; but,” added he, rising and bringing 
a book from his desk, “here is a book by 
one Morris Birkbeck, — read it, both of you, 
and then let me know your minds.” 

The sisters read. On the following Lady- 
day, James Cheshire had turned over his 
farm advantageously to another, and he, 
his wife, Nancy, and the old servant, Mary 
Spendlove, all embarked at Liverpool, and 
transferred themselves to the United States, 
and then to the State of Illinois. Five- 
and-twenty years have rolled over since that 
day. We could tell a long and curious 
story of the fortunes of James Cheshire and 
his family ; from the days when, half re- 
penting of his emigration and his purchase, 
he found himself in a rough country, amid 


rough and spiteful squatters, and lay for 
months with a brace of pistols under his 
pillow, and a great sword by his bedside for 
fear of robbery and murder. But enough, 
that at this moment, James Cheshire, in a 
fine cultivated country, sees his ample es- 
tates cultivated by his sons, while as Colonel 
and Magistrate he dispenses the law and 
receives the respectful homage of the neigh- 
borhood. Nancy Dunster, now styled Mrs. 
Dunster, the Mother in Israel — the pro- 
moter of schools and the counsellor of old 
and young — still lives. Years have im- 
proved rather than deteriorated her short 
and stout exterior. The long exercise of 
wise thoughts and the play of benevolent 
feelings, have given even a sacred beauty 
to her homely features. The dwarf has 
disappeared, and there remains instead, a 
grave but venerable matron, — honored like 
a queen. 







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FORTUNE WILDRED. 


A GREAT many years ago — two-and-twenty 
years to-night — I well remember what a 
cold, wet night it was, with a thick sleet 
driving against the windows, and a melan- 
choly, moaning wind creeping through the 
leafless branches. It had been quite a sad 
winter time to us at home — the only sad one 
I had ever known, for it was just two or 
three weeks after the accident had happened 
that flrst laid me on my couch, and only a 
few days before, my father had told me 
that I should never be able to rise from 
it any more. It had been a heavy blow to 
us all. 

We sat together in the drawing-room all 
the long evening, my father, and my mother, 
and I — my sister Kate had gone the day be- 
fore to some friends of ours in the country. 
One gets so soon used to misfortunes and 
disappointments when just a little time has 
passed ; but, at the flrst, they are often so 
hard to bear, and I think that never, at any 
time, did I feel such sorrow at the thought 
that I must be an invalid my whole life as 
I did that night. I was only a girl — not 
fifteen yet ; and, at that age we are so full 
of bright dreams about the future, looking 
forward with such clear, joyous hopefulness 
to the world that is just beginning to open 
before us, stretching out our hands so 
eagerly to the golden light that we think we 
see in the far distance. It was so hard to 
have the bright view shut out for ever, to 
have the bright dreams fade away, to have 
all the hopes that to me had made the 
thought of life so beautiful, torn from me 
for ever in one moment. 

I had borne the knowledge of it all quite 
calmly at first ; it was only now that I 
thought I really felt and knew all that I was 
losing. But, thank God, my life has not 
been what in my faithlessness I thought, 
that night, it would be ; thank God, that 
the whole bitterness of those few hours’ 
thought has never come to me as it did 
then, again. 

Early in the evening my father had been 
reading to us aloud ; but since he ceased, no 
word had been spoken in the room. He 


had been writing for the last two hours ; my 
mother, sitting by the fire, was reading. 
The whole house was silent ; and from with- 
out, the only sounds that came to us were 
the wind howling through the trees, and the 
cold rain dashing on the windows — both 
cheerless sounds enough to hear. It was in- 
deed a night for melancholy thoughts ; and 
to one ill and weak as I was then, perhaps 
it was to be forgiven that, thinking of the 
future and the past, looking back upon the 
happy days that were gone, and forward to 
where the sunless clouds hung so heavily, I 
should scarcely be able to press back the 
tears that tried to blind me. 

For when we are very young we shrink 
so from feeling prison-bound : we pray so 
earnestly, that if sorrow must come to us, it 
may rather burst in sudden storm upon us, 
and, passing away, leave the blue sky clear 
again, than that our whole life should be 
wrapped up in a cold gray shroud, through 
which no deep sorrow can ever pierce into 
our hearts — no deep joy ever come to glad- 
den us. 

And in that gray shroud I thought that 
my life was to lie hidden and withered ; and 
now, while as yet it was only closing over me 
— while with passionate resistance I would 
still have struggled to tear it back, I felt that 
my hands were bound. 

A little thing will sometimes serve to 
divert our thoughts, even when they very 
much engross us ; and so it was that night 
that I was suddenly startled out of the midst 
of my reverie by two loud sharp knocks 
upon the street door — a sound certainly by 
no means uncommon. And perhaps, if no- 
thing more had followed, I might have fallen 
again into my former thoughts ; but, as I 
lay for a few moments listening, the door 
was opened, and then there followed such 
strange hurried exclamations — half of sur- 
prise, half of alarm — mingled with such ap- 
parently irresistible bursts of laughter, that 
my first dull interest began rapidly to change 
into a far more active feeling. 

“ My love, what’s that?” asked my father, 
without looking up. 


218 


DICKENS’ NEW STORIES. 


“ I can’t imagine 1” my mother answered, 
in a puzzled tone, laying down her book. 

Just at this moment we heard a quick 
step running up the stairs, and all our eyes 
with one accord turned to the door, which 
in two or three minutes was burst open, and 
to our extreme amazement, in rushed our 
servant Ann with a little half-naked child 
in her arms. Yes, that little creature stand- 
ing on the step, was the only thing to be 
Been when she had opened the door. 

“ Upon my word this is going too far,” 
my father exclaimed, angrily, when he had 
heard Ann’s story. “ It isn’t two months 
since the same trick was played in town. 
Ann, call Tom to get a lantern immediately, 
and follow me. We must make a search; 
though indeed it’s hopeless to think of 
catching any one on such a night as this. 
Whoever has done it is out of reach by this 
time. My dear,” he turned round as he 
was hurrying from the room, “ don’t do any- 
thing with the child until I come back ; I’m 
afraid she’s ill,” and he closed the door. 

I shall never forget what a poor little ob- 
ject it was. It had scarcely an atom of 
clothing on it — just a torn old frock that 
would hardly hang together, and its poor 
little white shoulders and arms were all 
hare, and wet with the heavy rain. Her 
pretty fair hair was wet too, but her face 
was what attracted and astonished me most, 
for in spite of the bitter coldness of the night, 
it was glowing like fire, with a spot of the 
brightest scarlet on each cheek, and her 
large blue eyes so unnaturally bright that it 
was quite painful to look at them. Yet such 
a sweet face it was ! 

My mother made her kneel beside me on 
my couch, and we talked to her, and kissed 
her, and taking off the old wet frock, wrap- 
ped my mother’s shawl around her ; but all 
the time, and though she was certainly more 
than two years old, she remained as perfectly 
unmoved as though she had been a little 
statue, only those great bright eyes were 
fixed upon my face, until I began to get ab- 
solutely frightened at her. 

In about twenty minutes my father re- 
turned from his useless search. 

“We can do nothing more to-night,” he 
said, in a tone of considerable vexation, as 
he joined us again. “ Poor child, she’s very 
feverish indeed; why, exposure on such a 
night is enough to kill her. My love, you 
must put her to bed ; there’s no help for it, 
and I’ll see what I can do for her. But 
really it’s a little too much to expect that all 
the sick children of the neighborhood are 
not only to be cured for nothing, but to be 
housed too, by the physician.” And my 
father left the room, to change his wet 
garments, in no very contented state of 
mind. 

My mother put out her hands to lift the 
child from my side, and then for the first 


time a moaning sound broke' from her, and 
leaning forward she caught my dress with 
her little hands, and held it tight, half cry- 
ing, as if she feared to go away. I pressed 
her to me, and clasped my arms around her. 

I couldn’t help it — and she let me do it, and 
laid down her head upon mjr bosom, the 
dear child I with that plaintive moaning 
sound again. I was almost weeping myself, 
half with pity, half with love — for I loved 
her so much already, as we love all things 
that cling to us, all things that — weaker 
than ourselves — appeal to us for protection. 
And so, for I could not bear that against 
her will she should be made to leave me, 
still keeping her in my arms, I had the 
couch wheeled into my bedroom : and there, 
in Kate’s bed we laid her, poor little weary 
suffering thing. 

It would be too long to tell you all about 
her illness, for she was ill for many weeks ; 
how patient she was ; how anxious we all 
were for her ; how, in spite of a few cross 
words at first, my kind father tended her 
with as much care as ever he bestowed upon 
his wealthiest patient ; how my dear mother 
sat up night after night with her, as though 
she had been her own child ; how the little 
thing crept so into all our hearts, that when 
at last one evening my father pronounced 
her out of danger, even his voice was broken 
with emotion, and we were fairly crying— 
both my mother and I. 

Nor will I trouble you with an account 
of all the fruitless search that was made to 
discover who she was or where she came 
from, but one thing I must mention, because 
it perplexed us very much, and added to 
our difficulty in deciding how to dispose of 
her. It was this : that we began to sus- 
pect — what at first had never entered our 
heads — that she had been stolen, and was 
not a poor woman’s child. It was her own 
dim recollections of past things that gave 
rise to this supposition, but the fever had so 
confused all things in her poor little head, 
that we never could reach any certainty 
upon the subject. 

Well, the end of all was that we could not 

art from her, for we had all grown to love 

er so well already, and we knew that if we 
sent her away from us, the only place that 
would receive her was the workhouse. So 
it was quite settled at last that she should 
stay with us, and because she had taken to 
me so much from the first, they pronounced, 
laughing, that she should be my child ; and 
I was so happy. 

I called her Fortune — Fortune Wildred 
we baptized her — that, should she never 
find her own surname, she might at least 
have some proper claim to ours. Of course 
she must have had a Christian name before ; 
indeed she said she remembered it, and 
declared that it was Willie ; but, Willie 
seemed so odd a name to give a girl, that we 


FORTUNE WILDRED. 


219 


agreed it would not do, and then I chose 
Fortune. 

My little Fortune — she was so dear to ijie, 
and she loved me too, so well? Young as I 
was, our relation to each other became in 
many things like mother and child. It was 
strange that, of her own accord, from the 
first she called me Aunt Dinah. And I so 
soon grew accustomed to the title, and so 
soon too fell quite naturally into calling her 
my child, for though yet but a girl in years, 
I was becoming a woman very quickly, as I 
should think must often be the case with 
those who have their destiny in life fixed as 
early as mine was, for I had no other out- 
ward change to look forward to as most girls 
have, and all my business was to settle down 
and be content. 

My life, I often think, might have been 
lonely and sad without my child, but with 
her I was very happy. It was as if I lived 
again in her, for all the hopes and wishes 
that my illness had crushed, came into life 
again, but not for myself now. It was for 
her that I dreamed, and hoped, and thought 
— for the little bright-eyed child who loved 
to lie beside me, with her white arms round 
my neck, and her soft cheek pressed on 
mine ; who loved — Heaven bless her — to be 
with me always ; who never was so happy 
as when, even for hours, we two would be 
left alone together, and, with the perfect con- 
fidence that only children have, she would 
talk to me of all things that came in her 
mind, gladdening my very heart with the 
loving things she said. They all loved her, 
but none as I did, for she loved none of them 
so well. They used to say that I should 
spoil her, but I never did ; she was not made 
to be spoiled, my little Fortune, my sunny, 
bright-haired child ! 

She was my pupil for the first few years, 
and such dear lessons they were that we used 
to have together — dear to both of us, though 
most to me. She was so good and gentle, 
so sorry if she ever grieved me, so eager to 
be good and be forgiven again. — as though 
my heart did not forgive her always, even 
before she asked it — so loving always. She 
never wearied of being with me — the kind 
child — not even when, as happened some- 
times, I was too ill to bear her childish mer- 
riment, and she would have to sit quietly 
in my room, and lower her sweet clear voice 
when she spoke to me, for she vvould hang 
upon my neck then too, and whisper to me 
how she loved me. Ah, I never shall forget 
it all — I never shall forget how good my 
little Fortune was to me. 

I may as well mention here, that soon 
after it was settled she should stay with us, 
we had a little miniature portrait of her 
taken, which I have worn ever since as a 
locket round my neck. We did this on the 
chance that it might possibly serve on some 
future day as a means of identifying her. 


Here is the little picture now ; it is so like 
her, as I have seen her a thousand times, 
with her sunny veil of curls around her. 

The years went on, and brought some 
changes with them — one change which was 
very sad — my mother^s death. It came upon 
us suddenly, at a time when we were least 
thinking of sorrow, for when her short illness 
began we were preparing for my sister 
Kate^s marriage. It was long before the 
gloom and grief that her loss threw upon 
our little household passed away, for she 
was dearly loved amongst us, and had been 
a most noble and true-hearted woman. 

When Kate had been married about a 
year, my father withdrew from practice, 
and, to be near her, we removed to Derby- 
shire, and he, and I, and Fortune, kept 
house there, in a quiet cheerful way together. 
And so the years went on until my child 
was about seventeen. 

In this new part of the country we had not 
many neighbors with whom we were inti- 
mate, but there was one family, who, since 
our first coming, had shown us much kind 
ness. Their name was Beresford, and they 
consisted of a father and mother, and one 
son, who was at college. They were weal- 
thy people, with a good deal of property in 
the county. When we first knew them I 
had not been without a suspicion — I almost 
think it was a hope, that Arthur Beresford 
and my Fortune might one day fall in love 
with one another ; but it was not to be, for 
as they grew up, I saw that there was no 
thought of more than a common friendly 
love between them ; and, indeed, boys of one- 
and-twenty are generally occupied with 
other things than falling in love, and girls 
of seventeen, I think, generally suppose 
that one-and-twenty is too young for them 
to have anything to do with, as no doubt it 
very often is. So they remained good friends, 
and nothing more. 

I remember well Arthur Beresford’s re- 
turn from college two or three months before 
he came of age, and how, on the day after — 
a bright June morning it was — he burst 
into our drawing-room with a gay exclama- 
tion, “ Here I am, Aunt Dinah, and free for 
the next four months and coming up to 
me, took both my hands in his, and looked 
so gay, and so happy, and so handsome, 
that it did me good only to look at him. He 
was in very high spirits indeed, for not only 
had he gained his freedom, as he called it, 
but he had succeeded in bringing back with 
him his cousin, Nevill Erlington, a fellow 
and tutor at Oxford, who had done him, so 
he said, such services during his career 
there, that had it not been for him he should 
never have been the happy fellow he was 
there, which, whether it was as true as he 
thought it or not, I liked the boy for saying 
and thinking. 

And one or two days afterwards, Nevill 


220 


DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 


Erlington came with Mr. Beresford and 
Arthur to call on us. He was six or seven 
years older than Arthur, and neither so 
lively nor so handsome, but he had a firm, 
broad, thoughtful brow, and deep lustrous 
eyes, and a voice so deep, and rich, and soft, 
th?it it was like the sound of music to hear 
him speak. I liked him from the first — we 
all did — and it was not long before he be- 
came an almost daily visitor at our house, 
coming sometimes alone, on the excuse — I 
knew it was but an excuse — of bringing us 
books, or news, or some such thing, but 
more often with one or other of the Beres- 
fords. Indeed, after a little time, I know 
that I, for one, fell quite into a habit of 
missing him if ever a day passed without 
his coming, for his quiet, gentle presence 
had in it a great charm to me, and he had 
fallen so kindly and naturally into my ways, 
that I had felt, almost from the first day, 
that he was not a stranger but a friend. 

Nor was I the only one who watched for 
his daily visits, or felt lonely when he did 
not come. My dear child seldom spoke 
much of him when he was away ; even 
when he was with us she was often very 
quiet, but I knew soon that in both their 
hearts a deep, true love was growing up, 
and that my darling would one day be Ne- 
vilPs wife. And he deserved her, and she 
him. Timid as she was now, I knew that 
it would not be always so: I knew that 
presently when all was understood between 
them, her present reserve would pass away, 
and my Fortune, as she really was, with her 
bright, sunny gaiety, with her graceful, 
hoping woman's nature, with her deeply- 
loving, faithful heart, would stand beside 
him, to illume and to brighten his whole 
life. Such happy days those were while 
these two young hearts were drawing to 
each other — happy to them and me, though 
over my joy there was still one little 
cloud. 

Mr. and Mrs. Beresford were the only 
ersons amongst our new friends to whom I 
ad told my Fortune's story. I did not feel 
that it was a thing I needed to tell to every 
one ; but now I was anxious that Nevill 
should know it, and felt uneasy as day after 
passed, and kept him still in ignorance. 
But indeed I was perplexed what to do, for 
he and I were almost never alone, and in 
the state in which matters were yet be- 
tween him and Fortune, it would have been 
premature and even indelicate to ask Mrs. 
Beresford to interfere. There was only one 
opportunity I had for speaking to him, and 
that I lost. I remember that day well. 
My father and Fortune had gone after din- 
ner to my sister Kate's, expecting to be 
back in an hour, and when the hour had 
nearly elapsed, Nevill came in alone, bring- 
ing a request that they would return with 
him to spend the evening at the Beresfords. 


I thought they would soon be In, so he will- 
ingly agreed to wait ; and sitting beside me 
at the open window, he presently began — 
it was the first time he had ever done so— - 
to talk of Fortune. It was strange ; with- 
out a word of preparation or introduction, 
he spoke of her as only one who loved her 
could speak. For a moment I was startled ; 
then I fell into his tone, and I too talked 
of my child as I could have done to few but 
him. There was no explanation between 
us, but each read the other's heart fully and 
perfectly. And, yet, not even then did I 
tell him Fortune's story. I longed to do it 
— it was on my lips again and again — but 
I was expecting her return with my father 
every moment, and I feared to be inter- 
rupted when I had once begun. So the 
time went past, and I was vexed with my- 
self when it was gone, that my tale was 
still untold. 

Though it was after sunset when they 
came in, Nevill persuaded them still to ac- 
company him back. I remember well his 
warm though silent farewell to me that 
night. I remember, too, when they were 
all away, how long I lay and thought in the 
summer twilight. I ought to have been 
glad, and I was glad, but yet some low sad 
voice, that I thought I had hushed to si- 
lence years ago for ever, would awake in 
my heart again, makipg me break the 
beauty of that summer evening Avith my 
rebellious tears. It was only for a little 
time, for I, who had been so happy, what 
right had I to weep because some hopes had 
died ? I pressed my tears back, praying to 
be forgiven, and soon the soft stillness of 
the night calmed me, and I thought again 
of my dear child, and eagerly and hope- 
fully as ever I had done when I was young, 

I dreamed bright dreams for her future 
life. When I was young ! I was but nine- 
and-twenty now, yet how far back my 
youth seemed ! Strange, there were scarcely 
two years between me and Nevill, yet how 
every one — how he, how I myself — looked 
on me as old compared with him. 

It was late when they came home that 
night, and I thought my darling looked sad. 
I had thought so once or twice of late. 
She slept in a room opening from mine ; 
and always came the last thing to say good- 
night to me. To-night, when she came, I 
was grieved, for she looked as if she had 
been weeping. She stood beside my couch 
— the light from behind, that streamed 
through the opened door, falling on bright, 
unbound hair, and also herself looking so 
pure and beautiful — my own Fortune! I 
kept her a few minutes by me, for I longed 
to cheer her; but she did not seem to care' 
much to talk. I said something about 
Nevill, and she asked if he had been long 
here before they came. 

“ About an hour," I said. 


FORTUNE 

“ Ah ! I am glad,” she answered. “ I was 
afraid my poor Aunty had been alone the 
whole night. It was kind of him.^' 

“ Yes, he is always kind, dear,^^ I said. 

Which she did not answer, but smiled gen- 
tly to herself, and stood in silence, with my 
hand in hers ; then suddenly she frightened 
me, for quickly stooping down, she laid her 
head upon my shoulder, and I felt her sob- 
bing. At first she would not tell me why 
she wept, but whispered through her tears 
that it would grieve me ; that I should think 
she was ungrateful — I, who had been so 
good to her, and loved her so well always. 
But when I pressed her earnestly ; it came 
at last. It was because through the wide 
world she knew not where to seek for a fa- 
ther or a mother : because, to the very name 
she bore she had no claim, because to all 
but us, she said, her life had ever been a 
deceit, and was so still ; because she felt so 
humbled before those she loved, knowing 
that she had no right they should be true to 
her whose first step had been a falsehood to 
them. 

She told me this, pouring it out rapidly 
— passionately: and I understood it all, 
and far more than she told me. Alas ! I 
might have guessed it all before. 

» I comforted her as I could. I told her that 
her first grief she must bear still — hope- 
fully — if she could ; that for the rest, she 
should not sorrow any longer, for all whose 
love she cared for should know what her 
history was. I told her to have courage, and 
I thanked her earnestly, and truly, for how 
she had spoken to me then ; and presently, 
weeping still, but happier and full of love, 
my darling left me — left me to weep, be- 
cause a grief I should have known would 
come had fallen on me. 

I said that the Beresfords were landed pro- 
prietors, and Arthur was their ✓only son ; 
so his coming of age was to be a great day. 
Of course, I very seldom moved from home ; 
but it had long been a promise that on this 
occasion we were to spend a week with 
them, and the time was now close at hand ; 
indeed it was on the second day,* I think, 
after I had had this talk with my child, 
that our visit was to begin. So, early on 
that day we went. 

I have not mentioned that, for the last 
fortnight, besides Nevill, the Beresfords had 
had other visitors with them — a brother of 
Mrs. Beresford's — a Colonel Haughton with 
his wife and their two children, a little boy 
and girl. They had just returned from India, 
where, indeed, Mrs. Haughton had lived 
many years. She was in delicate health, 
and did not go out much, so that she was 
as yet almost a stranger to me ; but the 
little I had seen of her, and all that Fortune 
had told me about her, pleased me so much 
that I was not at all sorry for this opportu- 
nity of knowing more of her. There was 


WILDRED. 221 

something graceful and winning in her 
manner, indeed, that prepossessed most 
people in her favor, and there was much, 
both of beauty and refinement, in her face. 

It was the day after we came, and a kind 
of preliminary excitement was through the 
house, for the next morning was to usher in 
Arthur’s birth-day ; and to-day Mrs. Beres- 
ford was giving a large children’s party, 
expressly in honor of little Agnes and 
Henry Haughton. I think we had every 
child for six or seven miles round assem- 
bled together ; and there had been music 
and dancing and a ceaseless peal of merry 
voices all through the long summer even- 
ing, and everybody looked gay and happy, 
and all went well, for not a few of the elder 
ones had turned themselves into children 
too, for the time, to aid them in their games. 

It was growing late, and even the lightest 
feet began to long for a little rest, when 
from one large group that had gathered 
together, there came a loud call to play at 
forfeits ; and in two or three moments, all 
were busy gathering pretty things together 
to pour into Fortune’s lap ; and then they 
merrily began the game, and laughed and 
clapped their hands with delight as each 
holder of a forfeit was proclaimed. 

The most uproarious laughter had just 
been excited by Nevill’s performance of 
some penalty allotted to him ; and then I 
recollect well how he came, looking very 
happy, to kneel at Fortune’s feet and de- 
liver the next sentence. She held up a 
little ring ; and, when she asked the usual 
question, what the possessor of it was to do, 
he answered gaily, 

“ To give us her autobiography.” 

There was a pause for a moment, while 
they waited for Fortune to declare whose the 
forfeit was, but she did not speak, for the 
ring was hers. Nevill had risen from his 
knees, and seeing it, he exclaimed laughing, 
for he knew it, 

“ What, Miss Wildred, has this fallen to 
your lot ?” 

She looked up hurriedly from him to me, 
and said, “ Aunt Dinah,” quickly, as if to 
ask me to speak. But, before I had opened 
my lips, Mrs. Beresford came forward, and 
said kindly : 

“Nevill, I think it will be hardly fair to 
press this forfeit. We can’t expect young 
ladies to be willing to declare their auto- 
biographies in public, you know.” 

I interrupted Nevill and answered. 

“ But if you will take my account of For- 
tune’s life instead of calling on her for her 
own, I think I can answer for her willing- 
ness to let you hear it. Shall it be so, Mr. 
Erlington ?” 

But he was eager that it should be passed 
over, was even vexed that any word hac. 
been said about it at all. I understood his 
delicacy well, and thanked him for it in my 


222 


DICKENS' NEW STORIES. 


heart, but I knew what my child's wish was, 
BO I would not do what he asked me, but 
promised that when the children were away, 
the story should be told ; and then the game 
went on. 

It was past ten o'clock when they gathered 
round me to hear my child's history. There 
was no one there but the Beresfords, and 
the Haughtons, and Nevill, and ourselves. 
I saw that my poor child was agitated, but 
I would not have her either know that I 
guessed she was so, or that I shared her 
agitation, so I took out my knitting, and 
began working away very quietly as I talked, 
just glancing up now and then into one or 
other of my hearers’ faces — into Nevill's 
oftenest, because there was that in the 
earnest look he fixed on me which seemed 
to ask it more than the rest. 

There was not really very much to tell, 
and I had gone on without interruption 
neai’ly to the end, and was just telling them 
how I called her Fortune because we thought 
the name she said she had was so strange, 
when, as I said the word “ Willie," a sudden 
cry rang through the room. 

It fell upon my heart with a strange ter- 
ror, and in an instant every eye was turned 
to whence it came. 

Pale as death, her figure eagerly bent for- 
ward, her hand grasping Fortune’s shoulder, 
Mrs. Haughton sat. From my child's cheek 
too all color had fled ; motionless, like two 
marble figures, they fronted one another ; 
their eyes fixed on each other's faces with a 
wild hope, a wild doubt in each : it lasted 
but a moment, then both, as by one impulse, 
rose. Mrs. Haughton stretched out her 
hands. “ Mother !" burst from Fortune's 
lips. There was a passionate sob, and they 
were wrapped in one another's arms. 

I saw like one in a dream — not feeling, 
not understanding, not believing. A giddi- 
ness came over me ; a sudden dimness before 
my eyes ; a feeling of deadly sickness, as we 
feel when we are fainting. There began to 
be a buzz of voices, but I could distinguish 
nothing clearly until I heard my own name 
spoken. 

“ Dinah," my father was saying hurriedly, 
“ you have that little portrait — give it to 
me." 

I roused myself by a great efibrt, and 
taking the locket from my bosom put it in 
his hand. Another moment, and there was 
a second cry ; but this time it was a cry only 
of joy. 

** Yes, yes !" I heard Mrs. Haughton pas- 
sionately saying, in a voice all broken with 
emotion, “ I knew it, I knew it 1 It is my 
child — my Willie — my little Willie !" and 
she pressed the portrait to her lips, and 
looked on it as even / had scarcely ever done. 

Ah ! I needed no other proofs. I needed 
nothing more than that one look to tell me 
I had lost my child. 


Mrs. Haughton had sunk upon her seat 
again, and my darling was kneeling at her 
feet, clasping her hand and weeping. They 
spoke no more ; they, nor any one : then, 
when a minute or two had passed. Colonel 
Haughton raised my child kindly from the 
ground, and placing her mother's hand in 
hers, led them silently together from the 
room. 

I closed my eyes and turned away, but 
still the tears would force their way through 
the closed lids upon my cheek. And, as I 
wept, feeling — that night I could not help 
it — so lonely and so sad, a warm, firm clasp 
came gently and closed upon my hand. It 
was Nevill, who was standing by my side, 
and as I felt that friendly pressure, and met 
the look that was bent upon me, I knew that 
there was one at least who, rejoicing in my 
Fortune's joy, could yet feel sympathy for 
me. 

It was not long before Colonel Haughton 
came back, and from him we learnt all that 
there was to tell. Mrs. Haughton, when 
very young, had married a Captain Moreton 
and accompanied him to India, where my 
child was born, and called after her mother, 
Wilhemina. But she was delicate, and the 
doctors said that the Indian climate would 
kill her ; so before she was two years old, 
they were forced to send her home to Eng- 
land, to relations in the north. An English 
servant was sent in charge of her, and both 
were committed to the care of an intimate 
friend of theirs who was returning to Eng- 
land in the same vessel ; but the lady died 
during the passage, and of neither child nor 
nurse were there ever more any tidings 
heard, except the solitary fact — which the 
captain proved — that they did arrive in 
England. It was fifteen years ago. The 
woman had money with her belonging to 
Mrs. Haughton, as well as the whole of the 
child's wardrobe ; quite enough to tempt 
her to dishonesty. 

And such was the history of my Fortune's 
birth. 

I went away as soon as I could to my 
room, and lay there waiting for my child ; 
for I knew that she would come. The 
moonlight streamed in brightly and softly, 
and the shadow of the trees without the 
window came and waved upon my couch, 
rocking gently to and fro, with a low music, 
like a song of rest. It stilled my heart, 
that quiet sound ; and lying there alone, I 
prayed that I might have strength to rejoice, 
and not to mourn at all, and then after a 
long time I grew quite calm, and waited 
quietly. 

My darling came at last, but not alone. 
Her mother entered the room with her, and 
they came together, hand in hand, up to my 
couch, and stood beside me, with the moon- 
light filling on them and shining on my 
child's white dress, as if it was a robe of 


FORTUNE 

silver. We spoke little, but from Mrs. 
Haughton^s lips there fell a few most gentle, 
earnest loving words, which sank into my 
heart, and gladdened me ; and' then she left 
me with my child, alone. 

My darling clung around my neck and 
wept, and, calmer now myself, I poured out 
all my love upon her, and soothed her as I 
could, and then we talked together, and she 
told me all her joy. And there were some 
words that she said that night that I have 
never since forgotten, nor ever will forget— 
words that have cheered me often since — 
that live in my heart now, beautiful, distinct 
and clear as when she spoke them first. 
God bless her — my own child ! 

Brightly as ever the sun rose upon an 
August morning, did his first rays beam 
through our windows to welcome Arthur’s 
birth-day. There was nothing but joy 
throughout the house, and happy faces wel- 
coming each other, and gay voices, and 
merry laughter making the roof ring. There 
are a few days in our lives which stand out 
from all others we have ever known ; days 
on which it seems to us as if the flood of 
sunlight around us is gilded with so bright 
a glory, that even the commonest things on 
which it falls, glow with a beauty we never 
felt before ; days on which the fresh breeze 
passing over us, and sweeping through the 
green leaves overhead, whispers ever to us 
to cast all sorrow from our hearts, for that 
in the great world around us there is infinite 
joy and happiness and love. Such a day 
was this ; and bright and beautiful, with the 
blue, clear sky, with the golden sunbeams, 
with the light, laughing wind, it rises in my 
memory now — a day never to be forgotten. 

I was not very strong, and in the after- 
noon I had my couch moved into one of the 
quiet rooms, and lay there resting, with 
only the distant sound of gay voices reaching 
me now and then, and everything else quite 
still. I had not seen much of my child 
during the morning, but I know that she 
was h^appy, so I was quite content. And 
indeed I too, myself, was very happy, for 
the sunlight seemed to have pierced into my 
heart, and I felt so grateful, and so willing 
that all should be as it was. 

I had lain there alone about half an hour, 
when I heard steps upon the garden walk 
without. The head of my couch was turned 
from the window, so I could not easily see 
who it was, but in a few moments they 
came near, and Fortune and Nevill entered 
the room by the low, open window. 

“I was longing to see m'y child,” I said 
Roftly, and with a few loving words she bent 
her head down over me, kissing me quickly 
many times. 

Nevill stood by her side, and smiling, 
asked:— 


WILDRED. 223 

“ Will you not give me a welcome too ?” 

I said warmly, for I am sure I felt it, 

“ You know that you are always welcome.” 

He pressed my hand; and after a mo- 
ment’s pause, half seriously and half gaily, 
he went on — 

“ Aunt Dinah, I have come to ask a boon 
— the greatest boon I ever asked of any one. 

Will you grant it, do you think ?” 

I looked at him earnestly, wondering, 
hoping, doubting; but I could not speak, 
nor did he wait long for an answer ; but 
bending his head low : 

“ Will you give me,” he said — and the 
exquisite tenderness of his rich voice is with 
me still — “will you give me your Fortune 
to be ever more my Fortune, and my wife ?” 

I glanced from him to her. I saw his 
beaming smile as he stood by her, and her 
glowing cheek and downcast eyes, and then 
I ^new that it was true, and tried to speak. 
But they were broken, weeping, most 
imperfect words, saying — I well know so 
faintly and so ill — the deep joy that was in 
my heart; and yet they understood me, 
and, whispering “ God bless you !” Nevill 
stooped and kissed my brow, and my darling 
pressed me in her arms and gazing in my 
face with her bright tearful eyes, I saw in 
their blue depths a whole new world of 
happiness. 

A few more words will tell you all the 
rest. My child was very young, and Nevill 
had little beside his fellowship to depend 
upon, and that of course his marriage would 
deprive him of.‘ So it was settled that they 
should wait a year or two before they mar- 
ried ; and at the close of the autumn they 
parted, Nevill — who had been some time 
ordained — to go to a curacy near London, 
and Fortune with her mother, to relations 
further north. 

It was to me a very sad winter, for I was 
lonely without my child, but I looked 
forward hopefully, and every one was 
very kind. And in the spring an unex- 
pected happiness befel us, for a living near 
us in Mr. Beresford’s gift became vacant 
suddenly, and before it was quite summer 
again, Nevill was established as the new 
rector there. And then my darling and he 
were married. 

There is a little child with dark-blue 
eyes and golden hair, who often makes sun- 
shine in my room : whose merry laugh+er 
thrills my heart, whose low, sweet songs I 
love to hear, as nestled by my side she sings 
to me. They call her Dinah, and 1 know 
she is my darling’s little girl ; but, when I 
look upon her face 1 can forget that twenty 
years have passed away, and still believe 
she is my little Fortune, come back to be k 
child again. 


THE END. 


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Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: 



1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(412)779-2111 



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